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.11 











Charlie Clemson on Sunday Morning. Page 6. ^ 



FIRST THE BLADE 


BY 



HANNAH MOLE JOHNSON 

M 

Author of “ Snow-Drifts,” “ Signal-Lights,” etc. 



PHILADELPHIA 

PRESBYTEKIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION 

No. 1334 Chestnut Street 



COPYRIGHT, 1883, BY 

THE TRUSTEES OF THE 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION. 


ALL BIGHTS BESERVED. 



Westcott & Thomson, 
Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada. 


// 


CONTENTS 






CHAPTER I.' 

. PAGE 

The Clemsons 6 

CHAPTEK II. 

Mr. Steadman’s Story 24 

CHAPTER III. 

The Bony Phaeton 36 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Promised Excursion 47 

CHAPTER V. 

The Disappointment 61 

CHAPTER VI. 

Looking to Jesus 75 

CHAPTER VII. 

Clouds in the Sky 84 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Wounded Lieutenant 95 


3 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

PAGB 

Little Willie Denton 113 

CHAPTER X. 

An Effort to do Good 131 

CHAPTER XL 

Mr. Denton’s Party 152 

CHAPTER XII. 

Fresh Experiences 165 

CHAPTER XIII. 

About Grandfather Clemson 177 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Mary’s Difficulties 189 

CHAPTER XV. 

Farewells ! 205 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Home Again : 215 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Trying Days 228 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Good Out of Evil., 245 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Fruit After Many Days 258 


FIRST THE BLADE, 


CHAPTER I. 

THE OLEMSONS. 

“ Oh, home, by love made sacred. 

Well known in heaven thou art, 
Encamping-ground of angels. 

Dear to the Saviour’s heart.” 

a JT’S ’most time for Sunday-school, Mary. 

-L We must go early to-day, you know.” 

Charlie, leaning from his perch on a 
crooked limb of the old apple tree, could 
look down on his sister’s brown curls as she 
sat in the window of her little room bend- 
ing over an interesting book. 

“ Mary, I say, wake up ! It is ten min- 
utes of three by the town-clock. I can see 
it from here.” 

Charlie’s last remark brought Mary back 
to Mapleton from her dreamy wanderings in 
a world of fancy. 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“ See the town-clock ! How can that be ?” 
she exclaimed, starting up to look in the dir 
rection of the church-spire rising somewhere 
behind the leafy orchard trees which com- 
pletely hid it from her view, and then up 
and around for the voice. 

Come up here, and I’ll show you,” said 
Charlie, tossing a green apple into her win- 
dow by way of calling attention to the place 
where he sat with dangling feet. 

“ Charlie Clemson ! What do you mean ? 
Climbing apple trees on Sunday ! Your 
best clothes on too !” 

I’m reading,” said Charlie, complacent- 
ly, unfolding his little Sunday-school paper. 

Don’t you wish you were up here ?” 

‘‘ No, indeed ! You had better come down 
yourself, and right quick too.” 

‘‘ I will, when I get ready.” 

“ Dr. Anson is coming down the road,” 
said Mary, in a lower tone, spying the form 
of her venerable pastor through a gap in 
the shrubbery. ‘‘Perhaps you had better 
stay where you are till he gets by,” she 
added as the old gentleman drew nearer. 

Straightforward Charlie had no such idea. 


THE CLEMSONS. 


7 


“Dr. Anson coming!” he exclaimed. “ I 
mean to walk up to the church with him 
and the impulsive boy began without more 
ado to work himself along the limb upon 
which he was sitting, and so down to the 
ground, where he stood brushing off his 
clothes when the good man came opposite 
the little gate. 

“ Well, my boy,” said Dr. Anson, cheer- 
1^7) “you are ready betimes, I see. Shall 
we walk along together? Mr. Brown will 
need your help in seating the platform. 
These anniversaries bring work as well as 
pleasure.” 

Charlie blushed as he met the kind gaze 
of his old pastor, and then, a little con- 
science-stricken, looked down on a great 
rent he had just discovered in the sleeve 
of his new coat. 

“I’ll come pretty soon,” he stammered. 
“ But, but — The fact is, here’s something’s 
got to be mended.” 

“ Nothing unusual in that,” said the doc- 
tor, with a smile and taking in the situation 
at a glance. “We all have considerable 
mending to do ; and Sunday is a good time 


8 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


to mend some things — our ways, for in- 
stance.” 

How Charlie wished he had not climbed 
that tree, especially when, as the doctor 
passed on, his mother came to the door 
and looked sober when she saw what had 
happened. 

‘^See what Charlie has done to his new 
coat, mother. He is so careless!” 

“ I wouldn’t have gone up the tree, only 
it was so hot down here. I am real sorry, 
mother,” said the manly little fellow, holding 
up the torn sleeve with a very rueful face. 

‘‘So am I, but that will not mend the 
coat. I wish my boy would learn to think 
before he acts.” 

“ I do try every day, mother.” 

“I believe you do, Charlie,” she said, 
looking into the troubled face upturned 
to hers. “ Perhaps some day you will real- 
ly learn. Just now we must get out the old 
coat and put it on, or you will be late at the 
church.” 

“ But the old coat is faded and short in 
the sleeves, mother,” said Mary, who, though 
willing to have Charlie reproved as he de- 


THE GLEMSONS. 


9 


served to be, was not ready to see him go 
to church shabbily dressed. ‘‘Hadn’t he 
better stay at home than wear that coat 
again ?” 

“ Stay at home on anniversary day ?” ex- 
claimed Charlie, indignantly. “ No, indeed ! 
But can’t that coat be mended? It only 
needs a stitch to hold that corner down for 
to-day. Just for to-day. I’ll promise you 
that I’ll never, never climb a tree on Sun- 
day or any other day.” 

“ Do not make rash promises, Charlie. 
You may have to climb a tree some time, 
and perhaps on Sunday. As for the coat, 
you will have to take it off.” 

That was to Charlie less of a trouble than 
it would have been if Catherine, his mother’s 
maid-of-all- work, had not just then appeared 
around the corner of the house, on her way 
to the church, with two immense bouquets 
for the platform. 

“ Hold on a minute, Catherine,” exclaimed 
Charlie, dashing up stairs after the old coat ; 
“ I’m going to carry those.” 

“ Not so fast, Master Charlie ; there’s more 
posies forbye these. Look on the kitchen- 


10 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


bench, will ye? Ferns and lilies and ladies' 
eardrops and roses, and whatever else my 
leddy could find i' the garden she has 
pulled for the kirk. She thinks there’s 
naething too gude for that, bless her !” 

Charlie was out of hearing, and Catherine 
did not wait. 

But Fido did. His wagging tail and be- 
seeching eyes very plainly told that he knew 
something unusual was going on among the 
children, and he was speaking for his share 
of the pleasure. 

“Fido forgets that he always stays at 
home on Sunday,” said Mary, patting his 
little black head. “ I wonder how he re- 
members the day, mother? He has never 
asked to go to church before since he was 
our dog.” 

“Only once before,” said Mrs. Clemson, 
sadly. 

“ When was that, mother ? I’ve forgot- 
ten.” 

“ Five long years ago this month. These 
white roses were in bloom then, just as they 
are to-day and Mrs. Clemson took a bud 
from the spray hanging within her reach. 


THE CLEMSONS. 


11 


‘‘Ah, yes! That was the day of dear 
father^s funeral.” 

Mary could remember how, on just such a 
summer Sunday afternoon as this, he had 
been carried forth from his home to the old 
church, and then out to rest under the trees 
behind it, little Fido following close beside 
them as a humble mourner in the sad pro- 
cession. 

Mary was eight years old then, and Char- 
lie but five. Neither of the children re- 
membered much of their father’s years of 
health. Only one picture was vividly paint- 
ed on Mary’s memory : that was of the day 
when, in the strength of his young manhood, 
he stood up in Mapleton church to confess 
his faith in Christ. A few months afterward 
came the illness from which he never recov- 
ered. 

Besides the pleasant home he had just 
purchased, with its orchard and garden, he 
left but little for the support of his family ; 
and Mrs. Clemson had been obliged to use 
both her pen and her needle in order to 
eke out the slender income. 

How slender that was Mary was just be- 


12 


FIBST THE BLADE. 


ginning to understand. She had never ob- 
jected to made-over dresses and bonnets un- 
til that summer when her young friend Emily 
Grant came back from a winter in the city 
with so much finery that both their heads 
were quite turned. Mr. Grant had built a 
handsome villa on the other side of Mrs. 
Clemson’s orchard, and, with its widespread 
lawn and elegant conservatories, it quite 
overshadowed her own modest home, whose 
shrubbery and flowers had before that been 
without a peer in that quarter of Mapleton. 

The difference between Emily’s lot and 
her own was that afternoon the cause of 
some repining thoughts on Mary’s part. As 
she stood in the porch waiting for her moth- 
er and looking out over the long sunny path 
that stretched between the door-yard maples 
and the village centre, she saw her friend 
drive by with two gay girls in her pretty 
phaeton on their way to the church. The 
walk there, by either the river- path or the 
public road, was generally pleasant, but Mary 
could not feel cheerful over the prospect 
that afternoon, especially after having had 
a sight of Emily. 


THE GLEMSONS. 


13 


Mother/’ she said as that lady made her 
appearance down stairs all ready for church, 
“whichever way we go we shall have a 
dreadfully warm walk. An hour later and 
the river-path will be shady. I wish we 
could ride or that Dr. Anson had not named 
such an early hour.” 

“So do I,” said Mrs. Clemson. “But, 
since we cannot do as we would, let us 
cheerfully do what we must. Are you all 
ready?” giving a motherly survey as she 
took up her sun-umbrella to go. “Not 
quite, I see,” in almost the same breath. 
“Your sash-ribbon is wrong-side out, and 
you had better leave this faded rosebud at 
home, when two or three more are smiling 
at you as if to say, ‘ Come and take us.’ 
Let me pin one on for you, with a green 
leaf or two to make it feel at home. Then, 
if the wind should rise, your hat is all ready 
to tip over for want of fastening.” 

“ Oh dear !” sighed Mary as she passively 
yielded to the kind hands that were putting 
her dress in order ; “ I cannot see what makes 
you expect a breeze, mother. There isn’t 
a breath of air anywhere. We shall be 


14 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


as wilted as that rosebud before we get to 
church/’ 

‘‘ You are not looking the right way, 
Mary. There has been a glorious cloud 
lying over Brompton meadows since noon, 
and in the last half hour it has rolled up 
high enough to tell us that the wind is astir 
over there and may bring us a shower 
before night.” 

‘‘ I am glad about one thing,” said Mary, 
caressing the hand she held as though some 
comfortable thoughts were, after all, possible 
in so uncomfortable a day : I am glad to \ 
have you all to myself. Sometimes it seems 
to me we don’t have half so many nice talks 
as we had last winter. There’s so much to 
do in our house, or else, when I want to tell 
you things, somebody’s by to listen.” 

Mrs. Clemson smiled : 

‘‘We were just as busy last winter, dear. 
Isn’t the trouble with yourself?” 

“Perhaps it is — sometimes. Do you re- 
member how you felt when you were a little 
girl ?” Mary asked, earnestly, of her mother. 

“ I think I do,” was the prompt reply. 

“ But there’s a difference in little girls. I 


THE CLEMSONS. 


15 


don’t believe you ever were like me. You 
always think of the pleasant things first ; it 
takes me so long to come round to them. 
Charlie isn’t at all so. He’s like you, people 
say and Mary looked sober when she re- 
membered that it was her name, not his, that 
was written just under those of her parents 
and grandparents in the roll of Mapleton 
church-members. 

Mrs. Clemson also looked sober. Mary’s 
fretfulness had caused her some anxious 
thoughts of late, but the child seemed to be 
so aware of her faults, and so easily discour- 
aged in view of them, that her mother’s 
words were oftener for comfort than for 
reproof. 

They were just then passing Mr. Grant’s 
well-kept kitchen-garden, and close by the 
roadside some tender shoots of young corn 
were growing. 

‘‘See, Mary,” said her mother, stopping 
opposite a little square of corn-hills; “Mr. 
Grant’s last planting is fairly up, but I see 
the early corn is in tassel already. There 
will be a fine crop there before long. I 
wonder,” she continued, “if the little corn 


16 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


isn’t discouraged at finding itself so far be- 
hind the rest? There is not the sign of 
an ear ; only two or three tiny blades. 
To be sure, it has God’s sunshine and dew 
and rain, but then it has just begun to 
grow.” 

Mary looked up and laughed : 

“ I see what you are talking about, 
mother.” 

“ Yes, dear ; the corn can preach now as 
well as it did in the fields of Judea when 
Jesus taught the people. See ! it is first 
the blade, then the ear, after that the full 
corn in the ear. God expects you to grow ; 
he will never despise the tiny blade when he 
has the ripe corn to gather. You see that 
our Saviour knew all about us, my child.” 

If Mary had not felt a little better than 
she did when she started, she would have 
been impatient again before she got far be- 
yond Mr. Grant’s garden. Shading the 
path there for a little way was a tangled 
thicket of such shrubs and vines as love a 
brookside, and stretched on the bank be- 
neath them was the gaunt, awkward figure 
of a man whose dark skin and straight black 


THE CLEMSONS. 


17 


hair told of Indian blood. It was very 
plain that he was waiting for somebody, for 
he looked up at the first sound of footsteps, 
but did not get on his feet until Mrs. Clem- 
son and Mary were so close upon him that 
they started to find him there. 

“ Oh, Jack exclaimed the lady, drawing 
back ; you were so quiet that I did not see 
you at first, and thought it might be a stran- 
ger.” 

I no stranger,” said Jack, with a digni- 
fied air. ‘‘ I wait for teacher.” 

Jack was one of Mrs. Clemson’s Sunday- 
scholars — the largest, oldest and most igno- 
rant of her class, but one who, after years 
of patient care and many discouragements, 
was giving her much comfort. 

“ Yes, Jack,” she said ; “ I am very glad 
to see you. We shall have to walk along a 
little faster if we wish to go into church with 
the rest.” 

You tell for wh}^ the bell ring to-day,” 
said Jack as he stalked along before his 
teacher. “No Sunday-school, Dr. Anson 
say; bell ring all the same.” 

Jack could have asked any one of half a 
2 


18 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


dozen people wliat was the order of the day, 
and very likely had already heard all about 
the anniversary ; but it was his fancy not to 
have any conversation on the subject of Sun- 
day-school or anything serious whatever ex- 
cept with those whom he considered to be 
high dignitaries in the church. 

‘‘It is the Sunday-schooFs birthday, Jack,” 
said Mary, mischievously ; for she knew his 
whim and was trying, as the children often 
did, to get him to take some information from 
her. “ The Sunday-school is fifty years old 
to-day — just as old as you are.” 

But Jack deigned no reply to this: he 
wanted no information unless it came from 
headquarters. 

“I will tell you all about it,” said Mrs. 
Clemson ; “ I am one of the Sunday-schooFs 
oldest children, and I ought to know.” 

Hearing this. Jack turned around and 
walked meekly by his teacher’s side as she 
told him the story of fifty years ago : 

“ When corn was growing where most of 
Mapleton’s houses now stand, and the white 
men’s cabins were far apart in the fields, 
there was no house for God, and the children 


THE CLEMSONS. 


19 


were growing up as you were, Jack, before 
you learned about Jesus.” 

Jack nodded his head at this. He knew 
very well how that must have been. 

Mrs. Clemson went on : 

‘‘ A young girl who lived here then had 
read in God’s word what Jesus had said 
about preaching the gospel to every creature. 
She said to her mother one day, ‘ Let us call 
these poor children to our house and tell 
them what we know of God’s love to poor 
sinners.’ So the children were invited, and 
came — some on horseback through the woods, 
and some on foot — to the little cabin where 
they were taught about Jesus. They heard 
their teacher pray to him, and they believed 
he was there, all unseen, to hear her.” 

‘‘ We no speak, but he hear,” said Jack, 
fervently. Poor Indian, white man, little 
children — all the same ; his ear always open.” 

‘‘ Yes, Jack, always open. And he loves 
us all. He loved this young teacher, and 
watched over her work when she had gone 
to heaven.” 

“ Yes,” said Jack ; his heart always re- 
member what his ear hear. I know.” 


20 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


‘‘ By and by,” Mrs. Clemson continued, “ a 
house was built for God, and the people say 
to-day, ‘Let us remember how good our 
Father has been to teach us for more than 
fifty years. Let us go on as that young 
girl did, and tell his love to all who will 
hear.’” 

“ Teacher, that is good talk,” said Jack, 
solemnly. “ Me will remember. Poor In- 
dian tell about him all the same.” 

The poor Indian’s presence there sitting at 
the feet of Jesus clothed and in his right 
mind after years of neglect and sin was of 
itself an eloquent story to all who knew him 
and saw his tall figure pressing with the 
crowd of eager children into the class-room. 

Charlie was there at the door, his face all 
aglow with excitement. 

“ Oh, mother !” he exclaimed, catching 
sight of her as she came in with Mary; 
“come right along in here. Please do. 
I’ve something to show you.” 

“ Will it not keep, Charlie ? I ought to 
find my class now. There’s such a hubbub 
here.” 

But Charlie pleaded hard : 


THE CLEMSONS. 


21 


“ Only for a minute. Dr. Anson has just 
come in to see it. The Sunday-school has a 
birthday present, mother, and you can see it 
now close by.” 

She turned aside into the library-room 
with her children for the minute Charlie 
asked for, and joined the little group that 
had followed Dr. Anson. 

“ Come in, Mrs. Clemson,” said the good 
pastor; “we must all be children together 
to-day. See what one of our boys has sent 
us to remember him by on our birthday. 
Is it not royal?” 

It was indeed a beautiful banner and 
worthy of Dr. Anson’s enthusiasm — gay 
with streamers and tassels, with a broad 
field of deep blue, on which a snowy 
dove was pictured; and underneath it, in 
a flood of light from the opened heaven 
above, were these blessed words of the 
angels’ song: “Glory to God in the high- 
est, on earth peace, good-will to men.” 

“ The trouble with our Sunday-school 
army will be that everybody will want to 
be standard-bearer after this. — Is it not so, 


22 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


But the children were all loyal to Dr. 
Anson and jealous of his rights; so one 
little man thought he spoke the mind of 
the rest when he piped out, Oh no, Dr. 
Anson ; we mean to let you carry it.” 
Whereupon everybody shouted, and the 
youngster shrank back into the class-room 
quite abashed at what he took for a storm 
of applause after his speech. 

All the bright faces in Mapleton seemed 
to have gathered in the old church that day. 
All who did not come marching in with the 
banner wished they could do so, and those 
who did were happy to have the galleries 
so full of people who could look down on 
them with approving smiles. 

When the throng had settled itself into 
rows of waiting faces, and the opening 
songs and prayer were over, and the su- 
perintendent had read his report, a stran- 
ger was introduced to address the children. 
Some of them had grown a little restless 
by this time, and here and there small 
heads drooped on somebody’s friendly shoul- 
ders ; but there was one earnest young face 
before him that from the first encouraged 


THE CLEMSONS. 


23 


Mr. Steadman, for that was his name. It 
was our little friend Mary. More than once 
she found the speaker’s eyes fastened on her 
as though he had for a moment forgotten 
that he was talking to any one else. A few 
months before, she would not have looked and 
listened so earnestly ; but now the stranger’s 
words sank deeply into her heart, made soft 
by the dew of heavenly grace. He spoke 
of what children might do for Jesus’ sake, 
and then told the story of a little girl 
named Eva, sick and deformed, who for 
some months had spent her strength in 
teaching a few poor children about the 
Saviour. 

But we will give you Mr. Steadman’s 
story in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER II. 


MR. STEABMAN^S STORY. 

“There’s not a child so small and weak 
But has his little cross to take — 

His little work of love and praise 
That he may do for Jesus’ sake.” 

‘‘ rpHERE is a little sentence we bring in 
J- at the end of our prayers, dear chil- 
dren, which ought to be our watchword all 
through life. We ask God to forgive us 
our sins and keep us in the right way and 
take us to heaven at last, for Christas saJce, 
But does not God expect us to do some- 
thing for Christ’s sake — something that 
will show that we do not forget ‘what a 
Friend we have in Jesus’? The story of 
a little girl I once knew will show you what 
I mean by working for Christas sake. 

“This little girl’s name was Eva; she 
lived in a beautiful home in a city not far 
from here. If loving friends and plenty of 

24 


MB. STEADMAN^ S STORY. 25 

money are all that is necessary to make 
one happy, Eva ought to have been one 
of the happiest of little people. But you 
will see that she needed something more 
than these things when I tell you that 
poor Eva was sick and helpless and de- 
formed. She had not walked a step since 
she was three years old, and had never in 
her life known a well day. 

“But Eva had a Friend who is able to 
make sunshine even in a sick-room, and 
hers was as pleasant for her as the fields 
and the woods are to most happy, healthy 
children. He helped her with all the trou- 
bles she had to bear, and, as your little 
hymn says, he was ‘close beside her all 
the way.’ In her simple prayers she often 
asked this precious Friend if there was not 
something she could do to help him in his 
work in the world outside of the sick-room. 
She heard of the poor miserable children 
who did not know him or love him. 

“ ‘ Couldn’t I help somebody to find him ? 
God could use me if he chose, although I 
am a little crippled girl shut up in this 
room so much of the time.’ 


26 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Eva^s opportunity to work for Jesus 
came with the bright spring weather. The 
same kind Hand which dresses the earth 
with flowers gave her strength to go out 
once more into the glad sunshine. The 
first day she could get into the little chair 
in which she rode about she asked Norah, 
her kind nurse, to take her to Brown street, 
a miserable place in the worst part of the 
city. 

‘‘‘To Brown street. Miss Eva? What 
did put that into your head?’ exclaimed 
the astonished Norah. ‘I am sure your 
mamma will think shame of my taking 
you into such a place as that. Come, let 
us hunt violets in the Park; the grass is 
all specked with them and Norah turned 
the chair around, as though she was sure 
that Eva did not mean what she said. 

“But she was mistaken. Eva persisted 
in her request to be taken to Brown street. 

“ ‘ Mamma will let me go,’ she said ; ‘ I 
asked her.’ 

“Norah stood still for a moment, as 
though she scarcely knew what to do. She 
knew that Eva needed the fresh sweet air, 


MB, STEADMAN^ S STORY. 27 

and that all through the cold winter days, 
when she was shut up in her room, she had 
been longing for this time of the singing- 
of birds to come. What ailed the child ? 

“‘Well, Miss Eva,’ she said at last, ‘I’m 
thinking you are crazy to-day; but if you 
must go, I suppose I’ll have to take you. 
Only remember, when you get into the 
smells and the dirt, that it is not my fault. 
I’ll wheel you out again quicker than we 
went in if you’ll but speak the word when 
we get there.’ 

“Eva laughed over Norah’s dismay, but 
waved her hand for her to go on. 

“They came to a tall old house in the 
narrowest and dingiest part of Brown street. 

“ ‘ Let me stop here, Norah ; I see a boy 
I want to speak to. There! that boy. 
Call him, will you ?’ 

“He was a ragged little fellow with an 
old torn hat pulled down over his long hair. 
He came up to Eva’s chair with a surprised 
look, and bent down to hear what she had 
to say. 

“‘Will you please tell me your name?’ 
she said, in a low, trembling voice; for 


28 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


never before had she been near so rough 
a human being as he was. 

. ‘‘ The boy could not hear ; so he came 

closer. Eva shrank back, almost fright- 
ened. 

^ Hold your head up, boy !’ said Norah, 
angrily. ‘It isn’t for the likes of you to 
come so close to her.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, Norah,’ Eva exclaimed, her eyes 
filling with tears, ‘ don’t speak so to him. 
I want to know his name and, turning to 
the boy, she said, ‘ I would like to be your 
friend.’ 

“ ‘ My name is Jem, miss,’ answered the 
boy, in a very respectful tone, looking with 
wonder at the sweet face of the little girl. 

“ ‘ Would you like to have me read sto- 
ries to you out of the Bible, Jem, and teach 
you to read too, and to sing hymns? I 
would be very glad to help you if I could 
do so.’ 

“‘What is that you are saying, miss?’ 
asked Jem, eagerly, with a dim notion in 
his head that she meant something good, 
any way. 

“ ‘ Come to our house Sunday afternoons 


MR. STEADMAN’S STORY. 


29 


and let me read nice stories and sing with 
you.’ 

‘‘‘Perhaps I will/ said Jem, smiling. 
‘ I reckon that’ll be jolly. When shall I 
come V 

“ ‘ To-morrow.’ 

“ ‘ I ' don’t know about to-morrow,’ said 
Jem, scratching his head ; ‘ I goes across 
the river on Sundays, mostly.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, Jem, don’t you know that it’s God’s 
day and you must not use it for yourself?’ 

“ Jem stared more than ever at this ; but 
Eva saw that he did not mind her words 
much, after all. 

“ ‘ Come once, any 'way, Jem,’ she said, 
her courage beginning to falter. 

“ ‘ Yes, once, to please you. Hows’ever, 
it ain’t the kind of Sunday for me.’ 

‘“Here’s my street and number, Jem,’ 
said Eva, reading her card slowly over to 
him. ‘ Inquire at the door for Miss Eva. 
Can’t you bring some of your brothers and 
sisters along with you?’ 

“ ‘ Hain’t got none. But there’s Bill and 
Jack Owen might come, and their sister 
Jane.’ 


30 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“ ^ Oh yes ! Do bring them all,’ exclaimed 
Eva, brightening up. ‘And bring as many 
more as you like.’ 

“ This was a good beginning. When Sun- 
day afternoon came, they were all there at 
the door. Norah asked them up stairs into 
the nursery, where Eva was waiting. They 
all had a shy and awkward look as with any- 
thing but a pleasant manner Norah pushed 
the chairs into a row and bade them all sit 
down. 

“‘You’ll stay, Norah?’ said Eva, plead- 
iugly. 

“ ‘ Of course I will. I haven’t lost my 
wits yet — if my betters have,’ she muttered. 
‘What do you want next, poor dear?’ 

“ ‘ My big slate and a pencil, Norah. My 
Bible and hymn-book are here.’ 

“ Eva’s heart was full of thanksgiving to 
God for opening to her this way to work for 
him ; so she did not at all mind Norah’s cross- 
ness. 

“The children sat there staring at her 
and around the room till Eva’s gentle voice 
recalled their attention. She was opening 
her little hymn-book. 


MR. STEADMAN^S STORY. 


31 


‘ Can you sing T she asked. 

“ They looked at one another, and then all 
began to laugh — all but Jem, who seemed to 
be a kind of captain among them. 

‘‘ ‘ You see, miss,’ said he, edging up to- 
ward Eva and pointing with his thumb to 
his ragged little friends, ‘ none on ’em don’t 
know nothing, no more’n I do. We can’t 
sing or anything.’ 

“ ‘ Then I’ll sing for you,’ she said, ‘ and 
you can learn after a while. Here is a hymn 
about our Saviour : 

“ ‘ “ Jesus loves me ! This I know, 

For the Bible tells me so; 

Little ones to him belong ; 

They are weak, but he is strong.” ’ 

‘‘ They listened to that very quietly, but 
I cannot say as much for them when Eva 
opened her Bible and began to read. First, 
Jane slipped off her chair to finger the 
pretty trimming on Eva’s wrapper; then 
Jem slapped her hand for it, and this made 
her brother Bill so angry that he gave Jem 
a push which sent him headlong on the 
floor. 

‘‘ Norah thought it was now high time for 


32 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


her to interfere ; so she picked Jem up, and 
after giving him a sound shaking cuffed his 
ears and sat him down on his chair with a 
thump. 

‘‘This was too much for Jem. He had 
been disgraced in the eyes of his followers 
when he was doing his best in the way of 
duty to Miss Eva. He clutched his old hat 
and started for the door. Poor Eva was 
lame, you remember, and couldn’t run after 
him, as these little girls could, and in the 
confusion her voice could scarcely be heard. 

“ ‘ Please, Jem, do come back !’ she called ; 
but the boy had gone, slamming the door 
behind him and rushing down stairs. ‘ Oh, 
what shall I do, Norah?’ cried the little 
teacher, in distress. ‘ I’m sorry you took 
hold of him so. He’ll never come back 
any more, I’m afraid.’ 

“ Poor Eva’s tears did more to pacify the 
angry children than any words could do, 
though they did not show it in any other 
way than by watching her very quietly as 
she lay back among her pillows, pale and 
weak from excitement. 

“ Norah seemed to feel that she had done 


MR. STEADMAN^ S STORY. 


33 


wrong to cross her little mistress’s plans so 
rudely, and tried to make up for it by speak- 
ing very kindly to the children as she bus- 
tled about to get water and cologne for Eva. 
But the mischief was done. After a feeble 
effort to tell them a story, the little teacher 
had to give up for that afternoon. 

“To Eva’s great joy, and to Norah’s quite 
evident disgust, the children agreed to come 
again, and to try to persuade Jem to come 
too, though Bill said, 

“‘He’s a tough ’un, miss; I ’spect he’ll 
keep clear of this place after this.’ 

“ Bill and Jack and Jane came the next 
Sunday, as they had promised; but Jem 
was not there, though Eva had tried to find 
him during the week, and hoped he might 
heed the message she left for him at his 
boarding-place. 

“ Eva was very much disappointed at this, 
but she did not give up. Sunday after Sun- 
day she spent her little strength in teaching 
these poor children about Jesus, and in pray- 
ing that they might learn to know and love 
him as the Friend of sinners. 

“ I have never heard the result of Eva’s 


34 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


work with her scholars. Perhaps she never 
knew about it herself till she got to heaven, 
for not many months after this she went 
there to live in the presence of her Saviour. 
But I know that her labor was not in vain. 

“One warm Sunday afternoon like this, 
not long before she died, one of Eva’s broth- 
ers, a gay and thoughtless young man, was 
coming down from his room after taking a 
comfortable nap. Passing the nursery-door, 
he heard strange voices and stopped for a 
moment to listen. The door was a little 
ajar, and he could hear the children repeat- 
ing the Lord’s Prayer after Eva. Then she 
went on alone in a sweet, trembling voice, 
asking God to bless the feeble attempt they 
had made to speak and hear of Jesus. He 
knew what a timid, shrinking child she was, 
and wondered what had brought her to take 
such a step as this. 

“‘To think,’ he said, ‘how she is wast- 
ing her strength on these little wretches! 
In such warm weather too, and on Sunday 
afternoon, when she ought to be napping ! 
It is more than I would do for my best 
friend. I must get her out of the notion.’ 


MR. STEADMAN'S STORY. 35 

‘^But he could not persuade her to stop. 

« ‘ Why should I not teach them V she 
asked. ‘ Do you not think they ought to 
know that Jesus died for them and what a 
Friend he is?’ and she looked up into his 
face with such a peaceful, sunny smile that 
he stopped to think what this poor suffering 
child had to make her so much happier than 
he was. He could not get rid of that ques- 
tion. At last he went to Jesus with it, and 
found at those blessed feet the secret of his 
sister’s joy. How happy she would have 
been to hear him 

“‘Publishing to all around 

What a Saviour he had found ’ I 

But she will know by and by, if she does, 
not know now, what the Lord has done and is 
still doing through her feeble hands ; for she 
speaks to you to-day, dear children. It was 
her faithful work for Jesus that brought me 
here with a message from him. I am Eva’s 
brother, led to Jesus by the voice and the ex- 
ample of a little child like one of you.” 

And with this sentence Mr. Steadman 
closed his address. 


CHAPTEK III. 


THE PONY PHAETON. 


“ Forget not, in temptation’s hour, 

That sin lends sorrow double power ; 

With hand and heart and conscience clear, 
Fear God, and know no other fear.” 


M AEY CLEMSON had taken in all of 
Eva’s story, but the last words of the 
speaker — so quietly uttered that none but 
attentive listeners would have heard them 
at all — had driven every thought but one 
out of her mind. 

“A little girl like me, and sick and de- 
formed at that, helped this minister into 
the pulpit! Couldn’t I do as much?” she 
thought. ? 

Her young heart was so thrilled with the 
desire for such success as Eva’s that she for- 
got the humble, simple faith which won it, 
and remembered only who and what had 
brought the speaker there. 


THE PONY PHAETON. 


37 


Dr. Anson, the white-haired pastor, leaned 
forward to beckon Mr. Steadman to a seat 
close beside him on the platform, whispering 
loud enough for the eager child to hear : 

‘‘ I am glad you told that story, Mr. 
Steadman. The children may not get the 
deep lesson it teaches me, but they will see 
how God blesses the true service of love.” 

‘‘ I hope I have made the right impres- 
sion,” replied the young man, looking again 
at the rows of bright faces before him. ‘‘ I 
never so much feel the need of being care- 
ful of my words as when I talk to children. 
I remember what strange fancies I had about 
the Sunday-school stories I used to hear, and 
I keep wondering what the little folks are 
making out of what I say.” 

“ We have only to sow the good seed and 
look to the Lord of the harvest for the rest, 
brother,” said Dr. Anson, cheerily. Some 
of my little flock have been giving heed to 
you, I see,” nodding from the platform to 
Mary as he spoke. 

The child flushed with pleasure at finding 
herself thus noticed. It was a very usual 
thing for Dr. Anson to smile at her when- 


38 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


ever or wherever she caught his eye, but 
this time he put double meaning into his 
kind look. Mr. Steadman had a smile too 
at this, for he could not but remember the 
earnest face upturned to his, and how his 
own desire that day to do some work for 
Jesus had been strengthened by her fixed 
attention. 

The service was over, and the children 
came crowding down the aisles to go home 
again. Outside of the church-door Mary 
found Charlie waiting with a new book his 
teacher had just given him for punctuality 
in attendance at Sunday-school for a whole 
year. 

Look at this book, Mary, will you ? Gilt 
both sides, all over the red ! And such a lot 
of pictures, too displaying the illustrations 
one after another as he fluttered through the 
leaves. ‘‘And isn’t it thick ! I tell you 
what, Mr. Brown knows how to buy books 
that suit me. I only had to give this one 
look to see that it was the right kind. Not 
dull, close print, like some df mother’s big 
books, but loose and open — so,” showing her 
a page of dialogue where the story must 


THE PONY PHAETON 


39 


have been very interesting to people who 
want easy reading. 

Charlie must have thought his sister’s ad- 
miration of his book hardly up to the mark, 
for he soon ran on and left her to walk home 
alone. 

Mary’s thoughts were all about the little 
sermon she had just heard. 

‘‘ I might do something too,” she said to 
herself as she walked slowly along the river- 
path toward home. But then almost every- 
body I know in Mapleton is either a Chris- 
tian already or has somebody who is wiser 
than I am to teach him. I wish there was 
a whole street full of just such poor chil- 
dren as Eva found.” 

Mary’s bright dream of usefulness had 
carried her as far as this, when there was 
a sound of wheels behind her; and, look- 
ing around, she saw Emily Grant guiding 
her little pony phaeton up to the roadside to 
take her in. 

‘‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you, 
Mary,” she exclaimed. “Didn’t you know 
I’ve been wanting to give you a ride ever so 
long ? Come, jump in.” 


40 


FIBST THE BLADE. 


“ But we are almost home, Emily. Some * 
other time will do, won’t it? I thank you, 
all the same.” 

“I was going to take you farther than 
your own door, of course,” Emily persisted. 

‘‘ It is growing cooler, and we shall have time 
for a nice little ride before tea.” 

Emily had been the possessor of a pony 
phaeton for two long weeks without once 
asking Mary to share her enjoyment of her 
new pleasure. Day after day Mary had seen 
her drive by, now with one friend and then 
with another, until she began to feel grieved 
at the thought that perhaps Emily did not 
care for her so much as once she did. But 
this invitation sounded just like old times. 
Without another thought than this, she put 
her foot on the low step of the carriage and 
sprang to a seat at her friend’s side. 

‘‘We have just about time to go to High 
Bock,” said Emily, giving her pony a little 
tap with her dainty new whip as she turned 
his head toward the cross-road which led in 
that direction. “ I want to show you a new 
house there with the queerest roof you ever 
saw. Papa sold the land to the man who 


THE PONY PHAETON. 


41 


built it, but he says now, if he had known 
what kind of people he was bringing into 
the place, he would have done his best to 
keep them out of Mapleton. They say that 
Mr. Whitby is a great gambler and horse- 
racer and gives Sunday dinners, and that 
not one of the family is ever seen inside a 
church. Isn’t it too bad? But we sha’n’t 
have anything to do with them, of course,” 
said the young Pharisee, gravely, with an- 
other gentle touch of her whip on the pony’s 
glossy side. 

Mary was in a brown-study by this time. 

“Emily,” she said, after a short silence, 
“we ought not to be taking this ride to- 
day.” 

“What’s the harm, Mary? 'Papa does 
not think it is wrong to take a little quiet 
drive on Sunday afternoons. We used to 
ride out in the Park after Sunday-school 
whenever it was pleasant last winter. Mam- 
ma didn’t like it at first, but she got over 
her old-fashioned notions after a while ; and 
so will you when you have seen a little more 
of the world.” 

Emily had such a superior air when she 


42 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


made remarks like these that Mary, who had 
scarcely ever been out of Mapleton, felt quite 
overawed. Though Emily was only a few 
months older than herself, she seemed to 
stand on quite a pinnacle of experience, 
and to be as able to give advice on worldly 
matters as were any of her friends. But 
this case was quite different from the last 
one on which Emily had given her judg- 
ment. She might know more about the 
proper way to knot a sash-ribbon or do up 
her hair, but surely any one who read the 
Bible as much as did her mother, and who 
so often asked God to help her to train her 
children in the good and right way, ought 
to know as well as anybody how to keep 
Sunday properly. 

“Emily,’’ she said, firmly, “I must go 
home. I know my mother would not like 
it if she knew where I was.” 

“ You are real provoking, Mary ! I 
shouldn’t think it would take all this time 
to make up your mind about taking a ride 
on Sunday. Just as if my papa did not 
know what is right!” 

Mary’s eyes filled with tears. 


THE PONY PHAETON. 


43 


I'm very sorry," she said, but, you see, 
Emily, I was so glad to have the ride that 
at first I forgot what mother would say ; and 
my mother does know what is right. I must 
mind her even if I offend you." 

Of course !" said Emily, pettishly ; ‘‘ I'm 
sure I don't want to lead you astray. But 
how am I to turn around in this narrow 
place in the road, I'd like to know? Go- 
ing down hill too ! Do you suppose it will 
be very sinful if I drive on till we get a lit- 
tle more room ?" 

“ Don't be unkind, Emily. You know I 
am not setting myself up to be any better 
than you are. Turn around where you 
like; I can get out and walk if you will 
let me." 

But Emily was jerking at the pony's head 
by this time, and he, excited by her angry 
twitching at the reins, and uncertain, after 
all, what she meant, turned first to one side 
and then to the other, and finally concluded 
to go his own way and dash down hill in 
spite of Emily's efforts to stop him. She 
might have succeeded in doing this but for 
a sudden flash of lightning from the cloud 


44 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


that had been gathering its forces' all thei 
afternoon and was now darkening half the 
sky as it sped before the wind. 

The 'poor pony, startled by the peal of 
thunder which followed, sprang wildly to 
the side of the road just where a young sap- 
ling standing out beyond its fellows could 
catch the wheels of the little carriage and 
hold it back while he struggled to get on. 
The snapping shafts soon set him at liberty, 
and away he ran through the woods and out 
of sight, leaving the frightened girls cling- 
ing to the half-overturned phaeton. 

‘‘ Oh dear ! What will papa say sobbed 
Emily. ‘‘ He will think it is all my fault, 
and I am sure it wasn^t. It is going to rain, 
too. What shall we do?” 

The big drops were coming already, and 
another flash and thunder- clap unnerved the 
poor girl entirely. 

‘‘We shouldn't stay here under these 
trees,” said Mary. ‘‘We had better get 
out and draw the phaeton under shelter.” 

Scarcely knowing what she did, Emily 
followed the directions. The cushions were 
turned, the apron unfolded and the best hats 


THE PONY PHAETON. 


45 


hastily . taken off and tucked under it, and 
the two girls went bravely out under the 
open sky, from which the rain soon began 
to pour in torrents. 

In the roar of the storm the sound of ap- 
proaching footsteps was unheard, until, turn- 
ing a bend in the road, Indian Jack appeared 
leading the crestfallen pony, which he had 
caught not very far from the scene of the 
disaster. 

“ Oh, Jack,’’ exclaimed Emily, I am so 
glad you found him. I was afraid poor 
little Brutus was gone entirely.” 

“I come back to find somebody,” said 
Jack. ‘‘He no go far till I catch him. 
Mr. Grant’s new horse, I know. I mend 
all so you go home all right by and by,” 
said Jack, with a solemn look skyward. 

There was a ray of comfort in that. The 
“somebody” whom Brutus had so rudely 
upset was feeling very humble just then. 
What papa would say was uppermost in 
Emily’s mind; while poor ' Mary, who had 
felt the twinges of a very tender conscience 
all the time, relieved her mind somewhat 
by confessing to her companion in distress 


46 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


what she said and thought that afternoon 
about Charlie’s misbehavior. 

‘‘That was just like other folks,” was 
Emily’s comment. “Our Jamie is always 
doing such things, but papa does not worry. 
He says there isn’t much to be expected of 
children.” 

“ My mother says that what we are going 
to be when we are old we are beginning to 
be now : if we want to be tall, straight trees, 
we must not grow crooked when we are little 
saplings.” 

“ Of course not,” said Emily ; “ but who 
wants to be thinking about such sober things 
all the while ? I leave all that to papa and 
mamma. Besides, you see, Mary, I am not 
a professor of religion, and you are.” 

They rode on in silence for a few minutes 
after that. 

“ How little difference there is between 
us, after all!” thought Emily. 

“ I wish I was a better Christian,” thought 
Mary. “ Then I could tell Emily that she 
has got to answer to God for herself, if she 
is so young.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE PROMISED EXCURSION. 

“ Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be 
pure and whether it be right.” 

M rs. CLEMSON’S home on the river- 
bank was just far enough from the 
bustling little village of Mapleton to escape 
its noise and dust, and to make a difference 
between the narrow gardens there and the 
broad fields and woodlands that were spread 
before its windows. But, pleasant as that 
landscape was, the children were longing 
for the sea. The beautiful river ever in sight 
was always carrying their thoughts with its 
bright waters to that ocean toward which it 
flowed. 

Mary and Charlie used to sit beside their 
mother in the summer evenings and listen 
to the plashing of the waves along the river- 
bank at the foot of the garden, and wish for 

47 


48 FIRST THE BLADE. 

the day when they should hear the breakers 
rolling up the beach and watch the sea-birds 
dipping their white wings in the surf, but 
until that summer they had never had an 
opportunity to go. They were now looking 
forward to a long, bright holiday on the 
beach with their mother. She had prom- 
ised to take them on some pleasant Satur- 
day in August. The children had talked 
so much about it that the Grants had made 
up their minds to join the little party when- 
ever a day could be fixed upon to suit the 
two mothers. 

‘‘ It is too delightful, mother !” exclaimed 
Mary as she bounded up the steps one after- 
noon. ‘‘ Mrs. Grant says that next Saturday 
will suit her, if it is convenient for you. She 
will take all the children along, even the 
baby. To think of having that dear lit- 
tle pet with us to take into the water! I 
hope she won’t cry. Mrs. Grant says that 
Elsie shall make turnovers for our lunch 
all around, and one of her splendid frosted 
mountain-cakes. Mr. Grant says that we 
must go to a hotel to dinner, and there we 
shall see what it is to sit down with such 


THE PROMISED EXCURSION. 49 

great tables full of people and call for every- 
thing we ever heard of to eat.” 

Mrs. Clemson smiled at the climax of 
Mary’s speech. 

“ Where did you ever hear of anybody’s 
doing that?” she asked. 

‘‘The Davages say they do; they have 
lived half their lives in a hotel. You would 
laugh, mother, to hear Fanny Davage tell 
how she used to keep the waiters running 
and then leave the things they brought 
her.” 

“I do not think I should laugh, Mary; 
such waste is very painful to me. The 
Golden Kule forbids all such trifling as 
that with the feelings of others.” 

“But about this trip, mother. Aren’t 
you glad we are going? Everything is 
planned so nicely, just as we wish to have 
it.” 

“Yes, dear, indeed I am. I cannot see 
anything to hinder our having a very de- 
lightful time.” 

“You won’t give up going for anything 
but rain, will you, mother? May I tell 
Mrs. Grant so?” said Mary, just ready to 


50 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


take flight across the orchard again toward 
that lady’s seat under the trees. 

‘‘Stop, my child! You forget I make no 
such rash promises as that. Many other 
things besides rain may hinder us, but, so 
far as I know now, we can go better then 
than at any other time ; for since you went 
to school this morning I have had a letter 
from Aunt Julia Brainard saying that she 
may be expected here about Saturday of 
next week, as she has arrived in Boston and 
intends to run down here to spend a Sun- 
day with us. She wants to hear her old 
pastor. Dr. Anson, once more before she sails 
for Europe.” 

“ I am so glad she isn’t coming next Sat- 
urday, because Mrs. Grant is expecting com- 
pany too the day Aunt Julia will come.” 

Mary tripped away through the shrub- 
bery to tell Mrs. Grant of her mother’s ap- 
proval, as happy as the prospect of a visit 
to the seashore could make her. 

Friday afternoon came. How many times 
that day the young people crossed the or- 
chard between the two houses it would be 
difficult to tell, but it is certain that there 


THE PROMISED EXCURSION. 51 

was a great amount of business to be trans- 
acted among them, and more to tell about 
the sea than had ever before been rehearsed 
at one time. 

The Grant boys, who had been twice to the 
shore, considered themselves veterans in the 
matter of surf-bathing, but Charlie, who was 
a great reader, could tell stories twice as long 
and as large as theirs when they began to 
talk about sea-serpents and coral-reefs and 
pearl-diving, and about other wonders of 
the deep. 

‘‘We may see a whale,” he said, confident- 
ly. “One stranded on the Jersey coast not 
very long ago. I saw a man who helped to 
drag the big animal ashore.” 

“ ‘ Fish,’ you mean,” said Jamie, who 
thought that for once he had caught Char- 
lie napping. 

“ No ; I mean ‘ animal.’ A whale isn’t a 
fish.” 

Jamie was disposed to argue the point, and 
Charlie offered to settle it by a reference to 
the Cyclopcedia; but nobody agreed to that. 

“We can’t go to the house to study a 
musty old book,” said Harry. “I’ll take 


52 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


your word for it, Charlie: you generally 
know what you are talking about.’’ 

“ I’ll show you some time what I have 
read about a whale’s being an animal,” said 
Charlie. ‘‘ In the same book I read about 
the whale that discovered the North-west 
Passage.” 

“How was that?” queried Jamie. 

“ Easy enough. A whale was once cap- 
tured away up near Baffin’s Bay. He was 
a big, strong fellow, and they tried hard 
to hold him by the whale-line, but he got 
away with it, harpoon and all. About two 
years afterward the same ship was on the 
other side of North America, and they 
caught a whale with a great scar on his 
back. When they came to cut him up, 
there was the harpoon they had lost. They 
were certain of it, because it had the ship’s 
name and the date of making stamped on the 
iron. Now, that whale didn’t come to that 
side of the continent by going around Cape 
Horn, because it was a narwhale — a kind 
that never crosses the equator. Of course 
he could not come overland, and so he must 
have found a way by the Arctic Ocean — the 


THE PROMISED EXCURSION. 


53 


North-west Passage that sailors have tried 
so hard to find/’ 

‘‘If that whale had been a porpoise, he 
wouldn’t have been chased around the world, 
would he ?” asked Jamie. 

“Of course not; nobody cares for a big, 
lazy porpoise. I’d rather be a whale, though, 
and be worth chasing,” said Charlie. 

“ So would I,” echoed two or three voices 
in the little group under the apple tree. 

“ Bravo ! bravo ! That’s the way to talk, 
boys.” Mr. Grant had joined the party in 
time to hear Charlie express his sentiments. 
“ I was just looking around for good soldiers, 
and I’ve found three of them. I want two 
wide-awake boys” — looking at Jamie and 
Harry — “for special service.” 

“ How soon, papa ?” 

“Immediately. One must go over to 
Harrison’s Bridge and watch there until 
Mr. Dunlap comes along; he is going to 
meet the five-o’clock train, and he may come 
that way. If he does, give him this note, 
which he will read and save us both much 
trouble. The other boy must take the turn- 
pike and wait for him at Turner’s Lane. In 


54 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


case he comes that way, give him this note 
and ask him to attend to it immediately.” 

“ Can’t John go ?” faltered Jamie, whose 
heart had begun to sink as soon as he found 
the story-telling must give way to going on 
an errand. 

‘‘ No ; I’ve other work for John. Besides 
that, he could take only one boy’s place, and 
I need two messengers.” 

“ I’ll go, for one,” exclaimed Charlie. 

“ I’ll go with you,” chimed in Jamie. 

“Must I go alone?” asked Harry, anx- 
iously. 

“ Yes ; why not ? I’d be ashamed of you 
if you were not man enough for that.” 

Harry had half a mind to grumble, as he 
usually did, over Jamie’s grasping spirit; but 
his father’s last remark silenced him, and, 
taking the note, he started off without an- 
other word. 

Mr. Dunlap did not pass by Turner’s Lane, 
but over Harrison’s Bridge, where the boys 
met him almost as soon as they took their 
station there. 

“ Now that our errand is done, we can go 
back and have some fun,” said Jamie. 


THE PBOMISED EXCURSION. 55 

Charlie thought they had better go first 
and tell Harry that they had found Mr. 
Dunlap, so that he need not watch any 
longer. 

“Oh, bother! What’s the use of that? 
He’ll hear the town-clock strike five and 
come back of himself.” 

“ I’m going to meet him, any way,” said 
Charlie; “there’s no fun in waiting there 
alone for nothing. Come, Jamie!” and the 
generous little fellow started off across the 
orchard, determined to do what he thought 
was right and kind, even if he had to go 
alone. Jamie followed, of course, grum- 
bling at first, but soon joining with great 
glee in the race with Charlie for Turner’s 
Lane. There they found Indian Jack at 
the blacksmith-shop where he sometimes 
worked. 

“ Let us go and ask the old fellow what he 
thinks about the weather to-morrow,” sug- 
gested one ; and in they all rushed and sur- 
rounded the anvil where he stood as helper. 

Jack was very much pleased to see the 
happy little company come pouring into his 
dingy quarters to consult him. He put his 


56 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


long forefinger in his mouth to moisten it, 
and held it up to find the direction of the 
wind, as Indians do when there is very little 
air stirring and they want to know from what 
quarter the wind is blowing. 

Plenty sunshine to-morrow,” he said. 

^‘Are you sure, Jack, that it will shine all 
day?” 

‘^Sure ’nough.” 

‘‘Hurrah, then!” the boys shouted; and 
they all rushed home together, without giv- 
ing the old man time to collect his wits 
enough to ask them what they wanted a 
fair day for. 

So the sun went peacefully down behind 
the hills across the river, and the beautiful 
harvest- moon arose over the tree-tops to give 
glory to the night. The children fell asleep 
at last, ready to wake with the birds in the 
morning and start by one of the first trains 
that came thundering along down the river- 
valley. But the birds had the best of it. 
Many a young robin had washed his face 
in the dew as he went tripping about in search 
of belated worms that morning before those 
children were up and dressed. But it was 


THE PROMISED EXCURSION. 57 

time enough to be astir when the last child 
came racing down stairs to see Mr. Grant 
off (for he went first) and pleaded with him 
to be sure and come.” 

‘‘And please bring some candies, papa,” 
whispered Emily, with a housewifely air, 
but so loudly that all the children heard 
and joined in the chorus. 

It could not be expected that breakfast 
would be of much consequence, when so 
much was to follow it; so all were ready 
long before the great Mapleton omnibus 
came lumbering along the road to carry the 
little party to the station. It took some 
time to stow in Mrs. Grant and her five 
children and the nurse ; but when that was 
done, they were not long in driving over to 
Mrs. Clemson’s cottage. Mary and Charlie, 
with their lunch-baskets, stood in the sun- 
shine on the piazza steps, trying to be as 
dignified as possible, for they saw a trunk 
on the top of the omnibus and a stranger 
inside looking over their way. As theii 
mother came out she caught the lady’s 
eye. 

“Is it possible?” she exclaimed, eagerly 


58 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


hastening forward and giving both hands 
to an elderly lady in mourning who was 
alighting. ‘‘My dear aunt, you are very 
welcome, and these little ones too,’’ stooping 
to kiss a little boy and girl who came shyly 
down the steps after their grandmother. “ I 
am glad to see them. I was afraid, auntie, 
you would not feel like bringing them along. 
— These are your little orphan cousins,” turn- 
ing to where Mary and Charlie stood in 
blank amazement at this unlooked-for turn 
of affairs. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Brainard — for that 
was the visitor’s name — laying her hand on 
her niece’s arm, “ I am sure I am breaking in 
on some pleasant plan of yours. Do not let me 
detain you. I meant to have sent you word, 
but it was impossible to decide about my 
plans till it was too late to get a letter off. 
I might have telegraphed, but I thought it 
would not be necessary, as you were expect- 
ing me soon.” 

“Indeed, auntie,” said Mrs. Clemson, “I 
could not think of going ; and I know you 
are too tired to join us.” 

Mary saw from the first moment what a 


THE PEOMISED EXCURSION. 59 

great disappointment was in store for her. 
Her mother would never leave the invalid 
aunt who could stay so short a time, and 
of course the children must stay with 
their little cousins. There was but scant 
time for discussion, however, and almost be- 
fore they knew it Mrs. Clemson had wished 
the Grants a pleasant journey and the om- 
nibus-driver was cracking his whip on the 
road to Maple ton. 

All the sunshine seemed to have faded 
out of the world for Mary. Slowly and 
sullenly she followed her mother into the 
house with the quiet little brother and sis- 
ter, while Charlie, poor boy ! unable to con- 
trol his feelings under so thin a disguise, 
rushed off up the lane with his dog Fido 
to have a good cry behind the woodpile. 

Mrs. Clemson had time, even in all the 
bustle of this arrival, to note the shade on 
her little daughter’s face ; so, stooping down, 
she whispered gently : 

“ I am sorry for your disappointment, my 
darling, but be as cheerful as possible. We 
will try it again.” 

‘‘I can’t be cheerful, mother,” sobbed 


60 


FIBST THE BLADE. 


Mary, fairly breaking down now as the 
spring of her sorrow was touched. ‘‘It 
was real mean and hateful in Aunt Julia 
to let us children stay at home.” 

“Mary! Mary! Must I send you to 
your room to ponder your hasty words?” 

“It is just what I think; I can’t help 
saying it. And I’d just as soon go to my 
room as not,” said Mary, angrily, shaking 
off the hand laid in gentle reproof upon 
her shoulder and running up stairs. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 

“Thank God for all the good we know, 

And trust him for the rest.” 

TT was a long time before Mary could make 
J- up her mind to come down stairs again 
and be in the least entertaining to her lit- 
tle cousins. She heard Charlie^s voice en- 
couraging Fido to perform some of his 
tricks for them and listened to the cheerful 
hum of voices from the parlor; and, half 
ashamed, yet determined not to be too much 
pleased with anything, she came down and 
joined the children on the piazza. 

It was a tiresome day to the poor little 
girl, from whose heart all happy thoughts 
and holy desires seemed to have flown. But 
the good Shepherd had his eye upon the 
wandering lamb who had so lately sought 
his fold, and he called her back again as 

61 


62 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


tenderly as ever. He suffered her to see 
how helpless she was without him, and how 
soon she might fall again into the tempter’s 
snare when she left the Saviour’s side. 

Mrs. Brainard had been so much engaged 
in talking over old times and places that she 
had found but little opportunity for more 
than a few words with Mary when she first 
arrived ; but at sunset, when they went to 
take a stroll down by the river-side, she 
lingered behind the rest to tell her little 
niece how sorry she had been so sorely 
to disappoint her. 

know,” she said, ‘‘you will bear it 
patiently, my child, when I tell you about 
the dear children I have brought here with 
me. They saw a precious mother laid under 
the sod only a few weeks ago, and I am tak- 
ing them now from every friend they have 
ever known to live among strangers in a dis- 
tant home. I wanted your dear mother to 
see the children of her old playmate before 
I took them across the sea. Be thankful, 
dear child, that you have no such loss to 
mourn over.” 

Mrs. Brainard was wiping her eyes, and 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 


63 


Mary^s tears came too, though she knew 
but little about the sorrow that brought 

them. 

“ I do not want to make this a sad visit to 
you little ones,” said Mrs. Brainard ; I 
speak of this great loss only that you may 
be loving and patient with these motherless 
children.” 

I will be, auntie,” said Mary, pressing 
the hand she held. “ I hope I didn’t make 
them feel bad this morning when I wasn’t 
glad to see them.” 

‘‘I think they did not notice it. I am 
sure I did not, though I knew you must 
have been disappointed to see the others 
drive off without you. I think you and 
Charlie behaved very well about it.” 

Mary hung her head. 

“ I don’t know about Charlie,” she said. 
‘‘ He is almost always good, but I wasn’t 

then. ” 

“How was it, Mary? Do you think it 
was wrong to be disappointed?” 

“ I don’t know exactly, auntie ; everything 
seems mixed up about right and wrong now. 
It was so beautiful and easy to be good this 


64 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


morning,” said the child, her eyes filling with 
tears. 

“Ah, little girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Brain- 
ard ; “ that is the way with us all. We find 
ourselves out when trouble comes upon us : 
that is why our heavenly Father leads us 
through it. He knows how we need Jesus, 
and how apt we are to forget it and depend on 
ourselves ; so he shows us our weakness and 
ignorance and sin till we feel it and call to 
him for help. You have been telling him 
about this rough place, haven’t you?” 

Mary hesitated a moment : 

“ 1 did not feel two weeks ago as I do now. 
I then wanted to do right all the time.” 

“ Do you think good wishes or good feel- 
ings will save you, my dear?” 

“ Jesus saves me,” was the low reply. 

“ Yes, Mary, and Jesus only. Keep look- 
ing to him even now, when your heart is so 
dulled by sin that it seems dead to all good. 
There is life and healing in a sight of our 
Saviour.” 

“ I think, auntie, it would be such a good 
thing if we could say we love the Lord Jesus 
and mean to serve him, and then go right 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 


65 


on and do it and not give him any more 
trouble. I thought it would be so/’ she 
continued, sadly. 

“Yes, Mary; it would indeed be a pre- 
cious thought that we never had grieved our 
best Friend ; but, since none of us can say 
that, we can love and praise him the more 
because he is willing to forgive and forget 
all.” 

Mrs. Brain ard’s visit, so unwelcome at first, 
had given the children much pleasure as well 
as profit. One of the kind things she did 
while she was at Mapleton — and she said and 
did a great many — was to invite Mrs. Clem- 
son and her children to spend some time with 
her at the seashore. The visit was talked over 
as much as though such a thing had never 
before been mentioned. 

It seemed like a dream at first to Mary 
and Charlie. They had traveled so little 
that the trip was as much to them as a 
journey across the ocean would be to those 
who had seen more of the world. But 
they settled down at last to the feeling 
that all their delightful pictures of such 
a visit were about to be realized. 


5 


66 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Some serious thoughts came then with all 
the rest. 

Mary came skipping out on the piazza 
one morning, and found Charlie sitting on 
the step whittling out a new tongue for his 
chip-cart. 

“ School is over for six weeks and we are 
going to the seashore,” she exclaimed, as 
though the news was entirely fresh and 
her happiness had run over for the first time. 

I am glad, after all, that our visit is going 
to happen just as it is, aren’t you, Charlie? 
We stay so much longer, and then George 
and Kittie will be so glad to have us for 
company, poor lonesome little things !” 

Charlie was too busy to answer right away, 
or even to think much of what Mary was 
saying. He was at work at a tough knot 
in his stick. When that was ready for 
smoothing over he replied : 

Yes, I like it just as it is. Mother said 
it would all turn out right, and she knows.” 

But we came pretty near missing all this, 
didn’t we?” said Mary, thoughtfully. ‘‘If 
the driver had come straight from Ma- 
pleton, as he said he would, instead of stop- 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 


67 


ping to pick up passengers, and if auntie 
had taken a carriage, we should have just 
missed her. Then she wouldn’t have been 
sorry for us and invited us to the shore.” 

‘‘ I know it,” said Charlie, but it was 
God who meant to be good to us, all the 
same.” 

Charlie had been talking over this sub- 
ject with his mother the night before, and 
her firm faith in God’s power and wisdom 
had made a deep impression on his young 
heart; so now, when his sister seemed to 
look at their day’s disappointment without 
thinking of God’s hand in it, his thoughts 
went back to his mother’s words: 

‘‘You see, Mary, God had some good rea- 
son for keeping us home that day. Per- 
haps, if we had gone, something might have 
happened to us. You remember how Dr. An- 
son told us the other night about a man 
who was going to sea and didn’t get oif?” 

“ I have forgotten, or perhaps I wasn’t 
there when he told it,” said Mary. 

“ The story I mean was such a good one ! 
There was once a man who wanted to cross 
the Atlantic Ocean in a certain ship. He 


68 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


was hurrying down to the ferry-boat that 
was to take him to this vessel — it was the 
last trip of the ferry-boat before the vessel 
sailed — and he was rushing along, for he 
knew he hadn’t much time, when, as he 
was crossing a street, the wind came in such 
a gust that it blew off his hat. Well, he 
wanted his hat, of course ; and he chased it 
and chased it, and it was just before him 
ever so far. He would stoop to pick it up, 
and then the wind would whirl it away. 
But he thought every minute he would 
catch it. At last he did, and ran down to 
get on the ferry-boat. But it had gone ; it 
was quite out in the stream. Of course he 
felt dreadfully about it, but wasn’t he glad 
afterward ?” 

“Why?” asked Mary, with wondering 
eyes. 

“ Because the ship he was trying to reach 
went to sea and was never heard of after- 
ward.” 

“ Was that the reason you didn’t mind so 
much staying at home that day ?” 

“That was what stopped my feeling so 
bad about it,” said Charlie, whittling away 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 


69 


again. “ We couldn’t go without mother, 
you know, and she couldn’t go; so I thought 
it likely God had kept us at home for some 
good reason like that.” 

“ But nothing happened to the Grants,” 
said Mary. I don’t believe God hindered 
us because he wanted to keep us out of 
danger.” 

Charlie put down his stick and looked 
puzzled : 

‘‘You always bother me, Mary, when I 
try to explain things. You make more 
questions on top of the old ones.” 

Charlie looked very much injured. 

“I haven’t made any questions, that I 
know of,” said Mary. “ I can’t help think- 
ing, can I ?” 

Mrs. Clemson came to the open window 
just then, and Mary eagerly turned to her : 

“Why was it, do you suppose, mother, that 
we couldn’t go to the seashore last week? 
Charlie says — ” 

Mrs. Clemson knew they had been hav- 
ing a little dispute, for she had heard some 
of it: 

“Let me answer your question, Mary, 


70 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


without going over what either of you has 
said. God often turns us out of our way 
for great and good reasons that we cannot 
always see or understand, any more than 
Fido knew why I so roughly broke up his 
nap on the kitchen-hearth this morning. I 
knew the great tea-kettle would boil over in 
a minute, and I couldn’t lift it off; so I 
dragged the poor little dog away to keep 
him from being scalded.” 

“ I think it is pleasant to know why God 
does things, don’t you, mother ?” said Mary. 

Yes, I do, dear child ; but I have learned 
to trust my dear heavenly Father whether I 
know his reasons or not. When we have 
really settled in our hearts that God is the 
best friend we have, and knows more of 
what is good for us than we can possibly 
tell him, we are not distressed when we can- 
not see what he means. We trust him just 
as Willie Evans trusts his dear father, who 
leads his poor little blind boy along past 
here every day. Do you not see what a 
smile Willie always has when his father 
takes his hand ? It is not because he can 
see his way any better, but because he is so 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT 


71 


sure of his father’s love and wisdom that 
he feels as safe as though he had the use 
of his eyes.” 

‘‘Yes, mother,” said both children, with 
voices much softened ; for Willie Evans 
was an illustration of trust which they 
could understand at a glance. 

“ But I think,” continued Mrs. Clemson, 
“ that I can see one very good reason why 
God hindered us that day. He takes differ- 
ent ways of showing us what is in our hearts. 
It is well to have our eyes opened, isn’t it, 
Mary?” 

“ I thought of that,” said Mary, without 
looking up to meet the kind but earnest gaze 
of her mother; “Aunt Julia talked to me 
about it.” 

“Did she? I am thankful to her. It 
was a good thing to have her come ; and if 
she taught my little daughter in God’s truth, 
I see another reason to be glad we did not 
carry out our plan.” 

The happy day came at last. This time 
their preparations were very different, for 
they need take no lunch along, and trunks 
instead of baskets were to be packed. Mary 


72 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


was up SO early in the morning that she 
had to open the shutters wide to see how to 
put on the clothes her mother had so care- 
fully laid out the night previous. Long be- 
fore she was ready, however, Charlie was 
rapping at her door, and shouting out his 
wish that she should ‘‘hurry up and come 
down stairs to fold up and strap the bath- 
ing-clothes.’’ 

Again the stage came rattling up from 
Maple ton to take them to the station, and 
the Grants came across the orchard to see 
them off with many kind wishes for a safe 
and pleasant journey. When they were in the 
cars at last, gliding along past familiar streets 
and houses, there settled down on the faces 
of the children a quiet look of satisfaction 
which their mother knew was born of pleas- 
ant thoughts. She often glanced over at 
them as they so contentedly sat looking 
out of the car-windows, and she felt thank- 
ful that they had so much to enjoy. Every- 
thing was new to them. 

Mrs. Clemson took a carriage, when they 
arrived in New York, to drive through the 
city to the boat which was to take them 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 


73 


to their final destination. How many strange 
sights they saw as they rode along ! — the tall 
houses in close, dark ranks ; the dingy, 
stunted trees; the paved streets; the gay 
shop-windows ; and the busy throng that 
crowded the sidewalks like a great proces- 
sion that had not time to look up. The 
children were dumb with wonder. 

The policemen impressed Charlie more 
than anything else. For a long time after- 
ward he was not sure whether he would be 
a policeman or a minister when he came to 
be a man. Always before he had said that 
he meant to preach, but these tall men in 
blue uniforms and gilt stars who paced along 
so grandly, and who could stop the mighty 
stream of omnibuses with a wave of the 
hand, quite unsettled his plans for life. He 
was surprised that his mother, when they 
got out of the carriage at the pier, dared 
to go up to one who stood with folded arms 
and ask him a simple question about their 
way. The policeman could not answer. He 
said, “ I don’t know, mum ; I’m quite green, 
mum,” and colored up to the roots of his 
hair. 


74 


FIBST THE BLADE. 


‘‘Well/’ thought Charlie, quite taken 
aback that his notions of these kings of the 
street should suffer such a fall, “ I suppose 
even the President is green at first.” 

A short ride in the steamboat brought 
them to their journey’s end. Aunt Julia 
and her little grandchildren were at the 
landing to meet them. Mary had grown 
tired of being in a crowd of people who 
did not think it worth while to notice her. 
She had always lived among dear friends ; 
almost everybody in Mapleton had a kind 
word and a smile for her, and she was quite 
homesick for familiar faces when she caught 
sight of her friends on the pier. How sorry 
she was, when she and her mother had time 
to talk it over together, that she had given 
them so cold a greeting when they came to 
Mapleton to see her ! She resolved to make 
it all up now by entirely devoting herself to 
their pleasure. We shall see how she suc- 
ceeded in her effort. 



Reaching the Sea Shore 


Page 74 













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CHAPTEE VI. 


LOOKING TO JESUS. 

“There are briers besetting every path 
Which call for patient care; 

There is a cross in every lot, 

And an earnest need for prayer; 

But a lowly heart that leans on Thee 
Is happy anywhere.” 

I T was a great hotel at which Mrs. Brain- 
ard was staying. There were long piazzas 
and long stairs and long halls with rows 
upon rows of doors all the way down each 
side of them. They followed the man with 
their trunk on his shoulders till they thought 
he was never coming to a stopping-place. 
But he put it down at last in a pleasant 
little room whose windows overlooked the 
shore. The fresh breeze was stirring the 
white curtains, and they could hear the 
ceaseless roar of the ocean as soon as they 
stopped their lively chatter to listen. 

‘‘ Oh, mother,” exclaimed Mary, clapping 

75 


76 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


her hands, ‘‘ we can see the sun rise out of 
the water from here. That must be the 
east out there. Isn’t it splendid ?” 

Charlie, who just then had but one idea 
in his mind, was tugging away at the strap 
that held the bathing-clothes as if he could 
not get into the bundle fast enough. In his 
haste he was in a fair way to make the strap 
tighter than before, if Aunt Julia’s skillful 
fingers had not come to his aid. 

The little party were soon ready for a 
walk on the beach. Mary would have liked 
to take her mother’s hand and listen to the 
very interesting conversation about storms 
and shipwrecks she was holding with her 
aunt, but she had not forgotten that the 
good resolutions made on the way up from 
the steamboat must be put into practice to 
make them worth anything ; so she walked 
along with Kittie just behind the two ladies, 
near enough to hear what they were saying. 

But Kittie had a mind of her own about 
most things, and was very willing to express 
it. 

“We had better go this way,” said she, 
drawing Mary toward another and shorter 


LOOKING TO JESUS. 


77 


path to the shore. “ Charlie and George 
have gone down here to see Ponto swim 
after sticks.” 

‘‘ Hadn’t we better hear the end of Aunt 
Julia’s story?” whispered Mary, coaxingly. 

‘‘What was it? I didn’t hear the first 
of it. Any way, let’s go down and see 
where the boys have gone and away ran 
the little girl, beckoning Mary to follow. 

“ I’ll come in a minute. Can’t you wait ?” 

But Kittie had gone. 

“ Now I can stay altogether,” thought 
Mary. “Kittie has left me.” 

But she had lost the thread of the story 
while she was fighting with conscience. She 
knew that this was not keeping her resolu- 
tion. 

“ Please, Aunt Julia,” she said, with rather 
a troubled look, “ won’t you tell me the rest 
of this story another time ? I must go with 
Kittie now.” 

“ Certainly ; but do not think, Mary, that 
you must go with that child all the time,” 
said Mrs. Brainard. “You are older and 
enjoy different things.” 

Mrs. Clemson so well knew what was in 


78 


FIBST THE BLADE. 


her daughter’s mind that she felt like giving 
her a little help just here in her struggle 
against selfishness: 

“You will feel better to go, my dear;” 
and then, bending down, she whispered, 
“Bemember how Jesus pleased not him- 
self.” 

That settled the question. Mary was 
strong enough in a moment to run on, 
leaving the pleasant story unfinished. She 
had felt that it was right to be obliging 
and to forget herself in doing for others, 
but she did not remember, till reminded 
of it, that the love of Jesus is the best 
motive of all for being unselfish. 

“ It was only the other day I saw it so 
plainly,” thought she. “Am I always going 
to forget so ? I must try and remember, if 
I have to watch all the time.” 

She was very happy for the rest of the day 
in her unselfish efforts to amuse the younger 
children. She had her eye on Jesus — not 
doing some great work to be praised for it, 
but humbly serving him in the little things 
he set before her to prove whether or not 
she was like him. That night she felt as 


LOOKING TO JESUS. 


79 


she had done several times before — sure that 
she had found the right way to please her 
Saviour, and that she could go right on 
in this way without so much trouble as she 
had been having. 

That evening the little party sat out on 
the piazza until after the children’s bedtime. 
The sea-breeze was very refreshing after the 
glare and the heat of the day, and the stars 
were shining out in all the glory of a clear 
and moonless night. The plashing of the 
waves along the shore and the sound of 
distant music, filling the soft night-air, 
brought soothing thoughts to Mary. She 
was satisfied and happy after a well-spent 
day, and the sweet voices to which she lis- 
tened seemed to echo her heart’s desire to 
walk henceforth in wisdom’s path of peace. 

“Mother,” she whispered, drawing closer 
to her side, “ it seems as peaceful as heaven 
here, doesn’t it? I would like to stay al- 
ways.” 

“ I am glad you can say so, dear,” replied 
Mrs. Clernson, “ though I think the peace is 
in your own heart.” 

“ It’s inside and outside too, mother. It 


80 


FIRST THE BLADE, 


seems to me I’m going to remember now 
about the right way.” 

“ I hope so, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Clemson. 
‘‘But what makes you ever forget it, dear 
child ? When we found that new and pleas- 
ant path to Mapleton last summer, we never 
took the old one again.” 

“But this is different,” said Mary. “I 
can see these two ways right before my 
eyes.” 

“ You have seen the way of life, my child, 
as surel}^ as you ever saw the river-path to 
Mapleton, and you know how entirely dis- 
tinct it is from the path in which you walked 
that miserable Saturday.” 

“ I lost sight of Jesus altogether that time, 
mother. I did not at all want to do as he 
does.” 

“What makes you want to be like him 
to-day ?” 

“You reminded me how he ‘pleased not 
himself.’ ” 

“ What if there is no one to remind you ?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Mary, in a distressed 
tone. “ You make me think of everything 
I am afraid of.” 


LOOKING TO JESUS. 


81 


“ My darling,” replied Mrs. Clemson, ten- 
derly, ‘‘ I want to teach you what to do with 
these fears of yours. If you were walking 
and talking with Jesus as the Marys did, 
and Peter, James and John did, you would 
have his sweet counsel and reproof all the 
way. He would call you back when you 
wandered, hold up your steps when you 
stumbled and chide you when you failed 
to take him at his word.” 

^‘Wouldn’t it be pleasant, mother?” ex- 
claimed Mary, with a wistful look in her 
eyes that touched Mrs. Clemson to the heart. 
She remembered the days when she felt just 
as her daughter now did. ‘‘ You and I 
would have left all and followed him had 
we lived then ; you would have given him 
a place to lay his head. There would have 
been two more Marys to minister to him, and 
perhaps he might have said something to me 
that would have been written in the Bible.” 

“ He comes as close to us now, Mary, as 
ever he did in the days of his flesh. When 
he was passing from his disciples’ sight, he 
told them he was not leaving them alone, 
but that a Comforter was coming who would 


82 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


remind them of all that he had said just as 
they needed it. Sometimes, when he lived 
on earth, they had to leave him a while, and 
so missed some pleasant lesson he was teach- 
ing to others. Once, when the disciples were 
traveling with him on the road to Galilee, he 
grew weary and sat down by a well to rest, 
while they went on to the city to buy meat. 
"While they were gone he had that long talk 
with the woman of Samaria, of which John 
tells us. Only two of them had that walk 
with him in the country, when, ‘ beginning 
at Moses and all the prophets, he expounded 
to them in all the scriptures the things con- 
cerning himself.’ ” 

‘‘How sorry must the rest have been to 
miss such a Bible lesson as that !” exclaimed 
Mary — “ almost as sorry as Thomas was when 
they all had that good time with Jesus while 
he was away.” 

“It is different now, Mary,” said her 
mother. “ He can talk by the Holy Spirit 
just as well with a poor Martha at her work 
as he can with a Mary who takes time to sit 
at his feet. We need not miss a single par- 
able because we must go to another city, nor 


LOOKING TO JESUS. 


83 


fail to hear his voice because we do not sit 
next to him at the table in John’s seat. His 
last words were, ‘ Lo, I am with you alwayf 
and by that he meant that his Spirit would 
never leave us.” 

The next morning, as Mary stood by her 
table helping Kittie to dress, she saw a paper 
fastened against her mirror-frame. Looking 
closer, she saw these precious promises, writ- 
ten by her mother’s hand in large, fair let- 
ters : 


HE SHALL TEACH YOU ALL THINGS 
AND 

BRING ALL THINGS TO YOUR REMEMBRANCE, 
WHATSOEVER I HAVE SAID UNTO YOU. 

Mary knew that these words told what 
Christ said the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, 
would do for his disciples 


CHAPTER yil. 


CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 

M ARY’S life in this great seashore hotel 
was so different from that in her sim- 
ple country home that to her it was quite 
like a new existence. The splendid car- 
riages, the bright-robed, butterfly children 
flitting about the great parlors, so cheery and 
gay at night, the soft, sweet music, the dancers 
with their chat and smiles, — all made her 
feel that she had come to a spot where life 
could be one long holiday. She had been 
brought up to think of it quite differently, 
for Mrs. Clemson had so little of this world’s 
riches that Mary and Charlie, in their lov- 
ing sympathy with their mother’s cares, had 
even thus early in life learned many profit- 
able lessons in self-reliance and economy. 
But here, in this pleasure-seeking crowd, 
she was quite dazzled by the glitter of the 

84 


CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 


85 


world. For a little while her old life seemed 
to her to be tame and dull, and some of its 
best plans for happiness faded out of sight. 
She did not think what a change had come 
over her until one night when she sat with 
her mother by their chamber-window talk- 
ing over the day, as they often did together. 

“ I should like to live here always, wouldn’t 
you, mother?” 

‘‘ I do not think I should,” was the quiet 
reply. 

‘^Why not? All day long I am happy 
as a bird. That is pleasant, isn’t it?” 

“ Certainly, and I am enjoying with you 
my temporary freedom from care. But I 
do not wish to live always thus without set 
duties to perform ; my path of duty is plain, 
and I shall be willing to go back to it. 
And when the time comes for you to turn 
to study again, I hope you will take hold of 
it as do the birds which you feel so much 
like. What busy lives they lead, with their 
food-seeking and their nest-building!” 

Oh dear !” sighed Mary as the old mem- 
ories came back ; “ I wish I did not have to 
work so hard for all that I know. I cannot 


86 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


bear to think of going back to that wretch- 
ed old schoolroom to dig into grammar and 
arithmetic all winter. Just to think of it!’’ 

Mary’s face, so bright when she came in, 
was now all clouded over. 

‘‘Suppose you stay out of it, my dear,” 
said Mrs. Clemson. 

“Not go to school any more? What 
would I do for an education?” 

“ That is a very important question, Mary, 
but you seemed so disturbed at the prospect 
before you that I thought it would be well 
to look at the other side.” 

“I do not think you understand me at 
all, mother. I know I must work and study, 
but I wish — ” 

What she wished Mary left unsaid. She 
had turned away from her mother to look 
dreamily out of the window. 

Like a vast floor the sea stretched away 
before her; across it the rising moon had 
made a broad and silvered pathway almost 
to her feet. The music from the hall below 
filled the night with melody. Everything 
outside was like a bewitching dream. 

“ I cannot help wondering,” she exclaimed, 


CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 87 

at last, speaking out the thought which had 
broken in upon her wish, ‘‘ why it should be 
such slow, hard work to get anything in this 
world. I wish it wasn’t so ; I wish we could 
always go right on as we are doing here. 
I am so happy ! I don’t see that you are, 
mother, but then I am not like you. I am 
glad it will be a good long while before I 
get to be old.” 

‘‘So am I, my child,” said her mother, 
smiling. “ You cannot be half so glad as 
I am that you are only a child and may be 
expected to think and talk as children do. 
I trust your heavenly Father will give you 
plenty of time to learn all needful lessons, 
or else, if he means to shorten your years, 
that he will show you his great truths in 
some of his quick, short ways. I know 
from experience how much you have to 
learn about him and yourself and the world 
in which you live. But he can teach you. 
Look out of the window now, and see how 
wonderful he is in power.” 

A heavy bank of cloud which had been ly- 
ing low in the east for hours had become 
heaped up mountain-high since last they 


88 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


looked. The soft light of the moon was 
resting on its topmost peaks, making them 
appear as though they were crowned with 
snow. But suddenly all the vast pile was 
lighted up from within as by some hidden 
fire. Instantly every other light was paled, 
and all the wide landscape shone out as if 
it were day — the hotels up and down the 
shore with their flagstafifs and bathing- 
houses, the wide sandy road with its car- 
riages rolling by, the groups of people 
strolling along the beach, and, beyond all, 
the broad, gleaming ocean itself. 

‘‘ It is wonderful,” exclaimed Mary. ‘‘ How 
soon God can light up the world when he 
gets ready ! But I am glad he chooses to 
do it by sunshine instead of by such fire- 
works as these. He could do it in one way 
as well as in another, couldn’t he?” 

‘‘Yes; all things are possible with God. 
But if he chose to give us light and heat in 
lightning-flashes, we should still be as able 
as we are now to trace his wisdom and love 
in the plan. We do not know how he man- 
ages in those far-off worlds of which we can 
learn so little,” said Mrs. Clemson, looking 


CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 


89 


to the stars. ‘‘ Their sky and scenery, their 
plants and animal life, and the very air they 
breathe, may differ so much from ours that 
if we were to drop down among the inhabit- 
ants there we might not live long enough to 
give a single glance at the wonders around 
us. Our lungs might be as unable to en- 
dure the atmosphere of other worlds as they 
would to breathe freely in the depths of the 
sea. But I believe that if God has made 
those worlds homes for any immortal souls, 
he has not failed to reveal himself to them 
as a loving, wise and patient Father.’’ 

I wonder if they have to work as we do, 
and save their money and go without things, 
when other people have so much that they 
are wasting it?” 

Mrs. Clemson smiled at the enumeration 
of Mary’s trials, but drew her daughter more 
closely to her. 

Is not this way of thinking something 
new for you, dear? Is it one of the deep 
troubles,” she asked, looking into the face 
half turned away from her gaze, ‘‘or is it 
only a passing cloud that will float away 
after a good night’s rest?” 


90 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


‘‘It isn’t either one or the other, mother: 
it is a bother ; and I don’t at all feel as I 
used to.” 

“And you cannot settle in your mind who 
is to blame for it all, I suppose ?” 

“ Oh yes, I can,” said Mary, quickly : “ it 
was Eve. I shouldn’t think she would be 
happy even in heaven. I cannot forgive 
her sometimes when I think what good easy 
times we might have had if it had not been 
for her. Doesn’t everybody feel so?” 

“If everybody did,” replied her mother, 
“ it would not make it right. God provided 
a wonderful and an all-sufficient remedy for 
sin and its effects when he shut up Eden and 
left us in this world of briers and thorns. 
He means that we shall get back all we 
lost through the sin of Eve, and a thou- 
sand times more.” 

“ I know all that, but there are the briers 
yet. I haven’t but one nice dress to wear 
here, and the Blakes have a dozen, I should 
think, and all so pretty and becoming that 
I cannot keep my eyes off them. Then, 
when I go home, there is my arithmetic 
and those awful sums on the blackboard, 


CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 


91 


with Miss Williams hurrying me up and 
everybody looking on to see.” 

“ Dear child,” said her mother, soothingly, 
‘‘ I know all about it. You are very sensi- 
tive, and you find your share of the trials of 
this life without going very far. It was just 
so with me.” 

“But,” said Mary, still bent on justifying 
herself in her discontentment, “ there is a 
great difference between remembering such 
things and being in the midst of them, with 
all the briers sticking in and more coming 
as you go on.” 

“ I know that too, Mary,” said her mother, 
in a graver tone ; “ but let me tell you that 
between your life and mine there is another 
difference which I trust will not last long. 
I go to Jesus with all my briers ; you take 
part of yours to him, but try to manage 
most of them alone. There is arithmetic, 
for instance — a beautiful branch of truth, 
but one which is giving you some trouble.” 

“Not arithmetic, mother?” exclaimed 
Mary, starting up as she would have done 
if Dr. Anson had taken to explaining the 
“rule of three” from the pulpit. 


92 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“ Yes. Is it not one of the duties of your 
life to understand that ?’’ 

“ Yes, I am sure it is, provoking though 
it be.” 

‘‘And how are we told in God^s word to 
go through with life’s duties ? ‘ Whatso- 

ever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord 
and not unto men.’ You forget, when you 
go to the blackboard with a beating heart 
and trembling hands — as I know my dear 
little sensitive girl sometimes does — that 
Jesus is with you, ready to give you all 
needed strength for the performance of 
that duty just as your faith shall claim it. 
You have only to put out your hand and 
he will take it. With his approving smile 
like sunshine in your heart, you could bear 
with your teacher’s impatience and your 
schoolmates’ criticism, and that brier would 
cease to wound, would it not ? There would 
be work, but not worry.” 

“ I don’t say ‘ Yes,’ mother, because, when 
you have made things straight and plain, 
I look at them again in a little while 
and they are all as crooked as ever. I 
never get to the end of thinking, and set- 


CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 93 

tie down and stay put. It’s beginning, 
beginning, beginning, all the time. And 
I’m tired:” 

This was said not impatiently, but with a 
weary tone that went to the mother’s heart. 
She meant to have gone on with a little ser- 
mon to Mary about the foolishness of her 
anxiety concerning her dress, knowing that, 
with all the difference finery could make, her 
little daughter appeared as well as her more 
showy neighbors, and that she needed only 
the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit ” ' 
to adorn that station in life in which God 
had placed her. But, hearing her sigh, she 
dropped all that and took up the Saviour’s 
own strain of comfort — the balm that reaches 
the heart’s most hidden wound : 

“ You are ‘ weary and heavy-laden,’ my 
child ; Jesus calls you to come to him and 
rest. You are not expecting enough of 
him.” 

Mary was silent. Her head had found its 
old place on her mother’s shoulder, and she 
was thinking it all over, but with a dawning 
light in her soul. At last she said, as though 
to herself, 


94 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“Yes, I suppose that is the trouble: I 
do not expect enough of Jesus. I know 
he is my friend, and I ought to be glad 
of it.’’ 


CHAPTER yill. 


THE. WOUNDED LIEUTENANT. 

“I cannot always trace the way 

Where thou, almighty One, dost move ; 

But I can always, always say 
That God is love.” 

HOW of neat cottages with green blinds 



and pleasant piazzas stood along one of 
Mary’s favorite paths to the shore. A wide 
strip of green grass railed off from the street 
and divided by graveled walks to every door 
was open to them all in the afternoon. Chil- 
dren were always playing in the shade of the 
houses, as there were very few trees that 
could bear the strong north-east winds of 
winter long enough to grow to a size to 
afford any great shelter from the sun. 

Charlie and George, who had found some 
pleasant playmates there, came home one 
afternoon in high glee over an invitation 
they had received from one of them, Willie 


95 


96 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Denton, who had asked them into his moth- 
er’s cottage to see his wounded brother, a 
young lieutenant in the navy, at home on 
furlough. 

“He likes boys,” said Charlie, “and he 
told us lots of stories about the sea, and how 
he got hurt, and what he means to do when 
he gets well, and everything.” 

“A pretty general statement,” said Mrs. 
Clemson to her aunt, with a smile at her 
son’s enthusiasm, “ That must be the in- 
valid we saw lying on the lounge as we 
passed yesterday.” 

“Yes,” said Charlie; “he is helped out 
on the piazza every day. You ought to 
hear him talk, mother. He is just as brave ! 
He hardly knew when he got hurt, he was 
so busy fighting. The man at the helm was 
struck down by a big cannon-ball, and he 
stepped up to take his place, and another ball 
hit him on the knee and knocked him flat. 
He was up again on his elbow in a minute, 
and when the men came to drag him off he 
asked them what they wanted to take him 
out of the fight for. Just think of that 
Charlie’s eyes were flashing with his admi- 


THE WOUNDED LIEUTENANT. 97 

ration of such courage. ‘‘That’s pluck, I 
tell you ; don’t you think it was, mother ?” 

“ Yes, indeed it was. I wonder if he has 
pluck all the way through? Did you not 
tell me yesterday that Willie said his big 
brother swore ?” 

“ He didn’t swear before us. He is brave, 
for all that,” said Charlie, stoutly. “I’d 
like to be a sailor like Mr. Denton, and go 
round the world on a man-of-war.” 

Mrs. Clemson looked rather sober, but she 
did not just then tell Charlie all she thought 
of the bravery of swearing. It was laid up 
for a quiet talk with her dear boy when they 
should be alone together, 

Mr. Denton had sent word to Mary and 
Kittie that he would be glad to see them 
the next day ; he wished to show them some 
sketches of the wonderful countries he had 
visited. Willie had a great deal to tell about 
these pictures. There was the great volcano 
in the Sandwich Islands, with a river of 
fire running down its sides ; the tall rock of 
Peter Botte Mountain, in Southern Africa, 
standing up like a spire of solid stone or a 
giant without any arms. In Central Amer- 


98 


FIBST THE BLADE. 


ica he had been over the strange ruined cities 
that flourished there before the people in 
Europe knew that the world was round and 
had a great continent on the other side of 
it. He had sketched the pyramids of Mex- 
ico and Egypt. He could tell them how he 
once coasted along the wild shores of Nor- 
way till he came to the North Cape and 
clambered up over its rocks to look off over 
the lonely polar sea ; how the sun went slow- 
ly down at midnight till its rim had touched 
the glittering waves, and then slowly climbed 
the heavens again without ever taking his 
burning eye from the world. Then he had 
been through the Straits of Gibraltar and 
chased an ostrich over the Great Desert of 
Sahara; had bathed in the river Jordan 
and gone over Sinai. In .truth, he had a 
thousand things to tell about that Willie 
could not remember even in name. 

Of course the children were very anxious 
to go ; and when consent was given, the next 
question was how they should be entertained 
until it was time for the wonderful visit. 

Charlie was counting the hours on his 
fingers. 


THE WOUNDED LIEUTENANT 


99 


“Nine of them must go for sleep/’ said 
Mrs. Brainard, smiling over his eager calcu- 
lation — “ nine hours in one solid nap, when 
I hope you little people will lie quietly on 
your pillows while your busy heads and hands 
and feet are getting rested for to-morrow.” 

The next day the children found their 
wounded friend lying on his sofa as usual, 
but much more feeble than they expected 
to see him. His mother, who sat by his 
side when they came in, tried to persuade 
him to leave the entertainment of his little 
visitors to her, as she feared he was not able 
to exert himself as much as he intended, but 
he insisted that a sight of their bright faces 
had already cheered him up, and he was sure 
he should feel better after a talk with them. 

Mr. Denton was a tall, handsome young 
man with dark hair and eyes that seemed 
to read one’s face at a glance. Mary thought 
she had never seen a kindlier smile than his 
when he called her to his side and bade her 
welcome. His hand was thin and hot, and 
he sometimes spoke with difficulty, owing to 
twinges of pain in a wound he had received 
in his shoulder. He had several others which 


100 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


crippled him far more, but none that gave 
him such pain as this one, so easily affected 
by every change of position or movement of 
his arms. 

The children were full of pity and admi- 
ration for him. George begged of Mrs. Den- 
ton the privilege of fanning him, and Mary 
quite raised the envy of the rest by a plan 
for arranging his pillows much more to his 
comfort than any he had before tried. 

‘‘What a little genius you are he said, 
thanking her. “ You will spoil me amongst 
you. My head is quite turned already with 
so much attention.’’ 

“I should never have thought of piling 
up pillows that way,” said Mary, “ if I had 
not seen mother do it when she was taking 
care of one of her Sunday-school boys who 
was sick last winter.” 

“ So your mother is one of the righteous, 
is she ?” said he, turning his black eyes to 
look very earnestly at Mary. 

There was a change in his manner which 
she could hardly understand, and she was 
thinking more of what he meant than of 
his question, when Mrs. Denton looked up 


THE WOUNDED LIEUTENANT. 101 

from her embroidery with a warning shake 
of the head, though she was smiling at the 
same time, saying, 

Harry, Harry, take care ! You may be 
called to account for this/’ 

What does she mean ?” thought Mary. 

She was at first afraid that she herself 
had been doing something to make the lady 
laugh, but she saw differently when Mr. 
Denton answered with a sneer : 

“ Do not be anxious, mother ; I shall not 
poison the children.” 

“He is a sad fellow,” said Mrs. Denton, 
though she did not seem in the least dis- 
turbed by the thought. “ He has some wild 
notions, but he will get sobered down here 
fast enough. You must tell your mother to 
come and see him. We have been studying 
into old times, and I find that your family 
and ours are related in some way — I can 
hardly tell how. Perhaps Mrs. Clemson 
may be able to tell me if our great-grand- 
mothers were cousins or sisters.” 

Mary promised to give her mother the 
message, and in her interest in what fol- 
lowed soon forgot all her unpleasant impres- 


102 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


sions. A curious table with a revolving top 
stood by Mr. Denton’s sofa ; it was covered 
with books, maps and pictures carefully ar- 
ranged, so that by a slight movement of his 
hand he could easily reach any of - them. 
He had a map now and was unrolling it, 
while the children gathered closer to him. 
Charlie had. been growing impatient at more 
delay, but brightened up now at the prospect 
of a story. 

‘‘ Where shall we go this afternoon ?” asked 
Mr. Denton, looking round on his little audi- 
ence. ‘‘ To Europe, Asia, Africa or the isl- 
ands of the Pacific where the coral-insects 
are building up continents and the little 
brown babies swim as soon as they can 
walk ?” 

‘M’d like to hear about the little brown 
babies,” said Kittle. “What are they?” 

“ Little savages. Miss Kittie, wide awake 
and all alive with fun, who dash into the 
breakers and come up like fishes. They 
play ‘hide-and-seek’ in the water just as 
you would in the woods. Sometimes a great 
shark comes along and gobbles up a few of 
them for his supper; but that is not much 


THE WOUNDED LIEUTENANT. 103 

matter, for if he did not they would only 
grow up to be great ugly cannibals and eat 
up one another and all the white people 
who came to see them. I once saw a little 
fellow about five years old paddling about 
in the surf down on the beach at Samoa. 
His mother was not far away, though at 
the time she was so busy tying up her hair 
that she could not watch him. I was com- 
ing from the ship in the captain’s boat; and 
when about halfway to the shore, I saw a 
big shark gliding along about two oars’ 
length from us. I thought nothing of it 
till the man next me yelled out as though 
he saw something. ‘ See there !’ he shouted, 
with his eyes staring toward the spot where 
the shark had been heading. The little fel- 
low had his arms up for a dive, when there 
was a white gleam in the water, a snap and 
a scream, and he was gone.” 

Little Kittie was sobbing outright by this 
time. Mrs. Denton drew her closer and 
took her in her arms : 

‘‘ You should not tell such horrible stories, 
Harry; children are so easily frightened with 
such things. — Never mind, dear,” turning to 


104 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Kittie, with a soothing tone ; “ you are safe 
enough. There are no sharks here.’’ 

Charlie and George had so many questions 
to ask Mr. Denton that he did not hear his 
mother’s reproof for frightening Kittie. But 
the little girl wiped away her tears in a few 
minutes, and then broke out with a very sun- 
shiny speech just as Mr. Denton was explain- 
ing why sharks have to turn over to seize 
their prey : 

“ You needn’t mind, sir, if you did tell 
such a dreadful thing about that little brown 
boy. He went to heaven instead of growing 
up to eat people and worship idols and never 
know God.” 

Mr. Denton shrugged his shoulders — an 
old habit of his — and then put on a very 
wry face over the pain the movement cost 
him : 

‘‘I admire your charity more than your 
taste. Miss Kittie. Do not send too many 
little savages to heaven, or I shall not want 
to go there.” 

Kittie opened her blue eyes with astonish- 
ment. 

“ Harry !” said Mrs. Denton, who seemed 


THE WOUNDED LIEUTENANT. 105 

to be used to having a great deal of trouble 
with her tall son. Harry ! Mrs. Clemson 
will never let these children come here again 
if you talk so.'’ 

‘‘ What does he mean ?” asked Kittie. 

Is he not glad to have Jesus love the 
brown boys just as well as he does the 
white ones?” 

Mrs. Denton kissed her and laughed : 

‘‘ He is a great naughty boy, Kittie. I 
could never make him talk right, and now 
that he is so big he doesn’t mind me at 
all.” 

‘‘Mamma used to say that we must be 
good and then we could do good,” said 
Kittie. 

Mrs. Denton looked serious : 

“ Where is your mamma, Kittie ?” 

“ She is in heaven ; she went there this 
summer, when her white rosebush was all 
in bloom, but she has roses all the year 
round in ‘ happy land ;’ she said so to me 
one day. But I wear a black dress,” said 
Kittie, laying her hand upon her skirt, 
“only because I have no papa and mam- 
ma hereJ^ 


106 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


‘‘ Dear child sighed the lady. No 
doubt they are better off. We must try 
to think so, at least.’’ 

“Why, I know it,” said Kittie, earnestly and 
with great surprise in her tone. “ Grandma 
reads to me about it almost every day out of 
the back of the Bible, and it says — ” But 
Kittie’s memory failed her among all the 
beautiful pictures there. “ It says so much 
about the place where papa and mamma 
have gone that I think it’s the best story 
of all.” 

Kittie was full of talk as she walked home 
with Mary that afternoon. She was quite 
concerned about Mr. Denton, but found it 
rather difficult to make Mary understand 
just how she felt toward him : 

“ Don’t you think that he is real good, 
Mary ?” 

“ I don’t know whether to like him or 
not,” was her reply. 

“ I only wish he would get well. I am 
so sorry for him !” 

“So am I, Kittie. But if he dies, what 
then ? That’s the question, you see.” 

“ But he doesn’t seem to be real wicked. 


THE WOUNDED LIEUTENANT. 107 ' 

Mary. He wouldn’t be so kind to us if he 
was.” 

He may like us, but I am afraid he isn’t 
a friend to Jesus. He said ever so many 
things to make me think so.” 

Kittie was troubled over this. 

I know,” she said, “ that he talked very 
queer about those little brown babies, and he 
was very particular about their not going to 
heaven with him ; but he didn’t say any- 
thing about Jesus when I heard him.” 

‘‘ I know that,” said Mary, decidedly, ‘‘ but 
he laughs about God’s book, and he would 
never do that if he loved God’s Son. Then 
he is not pleased when Christians want the 
poor heathen to go to heaven ; and you know 
that our Saviour’s last words were about that. 
Mother says that when people die their 
friends pay great attention to their last 
words, and 1 am sure Jesus meant that we 
should help as many to heaven as we could ; 
so I suppose we ought to attend to the hea- 
then the first thing. I wish mother would 
go and talk to him.” 

Kittie quite agreed with her cousin about 
this. 


108 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


‘‘ Grandma or auntie could tell him what 
is right, and then he would feel different. 
I don’t think he is real good, either, when I 
remember all he said.” 

So the children chatted away until they 
came to the long piazza of the hotel. The 
groups of ladies and gentlemen who had 
been sitting about enjoying the cool sea- 
breeze were now dispersing to go in-doors, 
as the wind, that had been easterly all day, 
was now fast rising. The sky was clouding 
over, and there was every prospect of a 
storm before morning. 

Charlie and George, who had been too 
impatient to wait for the slower motions of 
their sisters, now came rushing to meet them, 
while Mr. Adair, a gentleman who had been 
a great friend to the children during their 
short acquaintance with him, was waiting 
to ask them one of those pleasant questions 
they had learned to like so well to answer : 

Who is ready for a walk to the beach 
with me this evening? I think there will 
be something down there worth looking at.” 

“ I ! I ! I !” they all shouted. 

Have you any objections to my carrying 


THE WOUNDED LIEUTENANT. 109 

the young folks off, ladies ?’’ asked he, turn- 
ing to Mrs. Brainard and Mrs. Clemson, who 
were close by. 

‘‘ Not in the least, if you are willing to 
have the trouble of their company.” 

Mr. Adair soon had them all about him, 
and they set off gayly. As they came near 
the shore the thunder of the breakers was 
almost deafening. They came roaring and 
tumbling up the beach, tossing their white 
caps high in the air, and then rolled sullen- 
ly back as if for a more furious plunge. 

The shore-line was marked by a high 
bluff, broken down here and there by the 
fury of the sea, which year after year was 
gnawing it away. Beyond it a smooth sandy 
floor sloped away to the water, making a safe 
and delightful bathing-place for the multi- 
tude of people who had gathered at the 
different hotels. Mr. Adair did not think 
it best to venture beyond the bluff that 
night, though there were several places 
where it was notched back so deeply as to 
leave a broad space which the waves did 
not reach. But he knew that, safe as they 
might then be down there, the rising tide 


110 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


would very soon roll over the shore-path 
leading to these little coves and cut ofi* re- 
treat, unless one could climb up the very 
face of the cliff. 

“I do not believe I should have thought 
of any danger if I had been alone,” said 
Charlie. George and I were coming down 
here on our way from Mrs. Denton’s, but we 
happened to think that it might be nearer 
our supper-time than we supposed, and so 
we ran home first.” 

They stood holding on their hats, for the 
wind was blowing a gale, and, between that 
and the roar of the breakers, they could 
scarcely hear one another’s voices. 

I came down with you on purpose,” said 
Mr. Adair. ‘‘ When I have once explained 
to you the danger of these shores and what 
to do in case of accidents, I think you will 
never forget it. You little folks ought every 
day to be learning something that will be of 
use in after-years. But hark ! What noise 
is that?” 

He stepped to the edge of the bluff and 
looked over, motioning to the children to 
remain standing in the lee of one of the 


THE WOUNDED LIEUTENANT. Ill 

little arbors put up there for the comfort 
of visitors. He was gone but an instant, 
when he threw himself flat on the ground 
and reached over as far as he could, as if he 
were grasping something. Mary had much 
ado to hold the boys back ; but, as they had 
promised to obey Mr. Adair’s orders, they 
yielded to her persuasions. 

They soon saw a reason for Mr. Adair’s 
strange motions. He raised himself care- 
fully up, lest the earth should crumble away 
under him, and they saw that he held a 
hand in his. A head belonging to it then 
came in sight — the curly head of a little 
boy. It was that of Willie Denton. Mr. 
Adair was dragging him up. He had been 
caught in one of the little coves by the 
hungry waves, and could escape only by 
scrambling up the face of the bluff, some- 
times digging with hands and feet for a 
hold upon it. 

Willie was borne home in great triumph, 
the children following to tell Mrs. Denton 
exactly how it all happened, which they did 
in such a hubbub of voices that she never 
got the exact facts of the story, after all, but 


112 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


fell to kissing her little hero without know- 
ing much save this — that he had been in 
great danger, but was again safe in her 
armsL 


CHAPTER IX. 


LITTLE WILLIE DENTON. 


“There everlasting spring abides, 
And never-withering flowers.” 


LTHOUGH a very delicate child, Wil- 



lie, after he came home, did not seem to 
be the worse for his exposure to danger. 
He had been much overheated by a long 
run on the beach, and then was drenched 
by the spray and exposed to the cold blast 
of the north-easter as he clung to the cliff 
and on his way home. He was able, how- 
ever, to tell his story to his brother Harry 
and the other friends who gathered around 
him, with all the flourishes necessary to im- 
press his hearers with a due sense of his 
bravery. But that night he was feverish 
and oppressed for breath, and so much ex- 
cited that his mother thought it best to send 
for a physician early in the morning. 

8 113 


114 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


When Mrs. Clemson called she was sur- 
prised to find the little fellow in great 
suffering, tossing about on his couch as 
though he could find no comfortable place 
on which to pillow his weary head. His 
mind seemed constantly to be wandering 
back to the danger through which he had 
passed the night before. Sometimes in his 
troubled dreams he was climbing up the 
crumbling sides of the bank, and then he 
had fallen and was battling for life with 
the angry waves. His hands would be raised 
in terror, as though the breakers were thun- 
dering down toward him, and his mother, 
who sat anxiously by, would clasp them in 
hers and, bending over him, whisper in his 
ear tender and soothing words which woke 
him with a cry of joy at finding himself 
safe at home. Then he would call for his 
little friends, and seemed so pacified and 
diverted when Mary came in with her 
mother to see him that Mrs. Denton thought 
it best to let her stay a while with him. 

Charlie and George had been at his door 
more than once that day, but they were not 
allowed to see him, for fear of causing over- 


LITTLE WILLIE DENTON. 


115 


excitement. Mary had quite a gift at telling 
stories, and often amused Charlie with the 
treasures laid up in her storehouse of mem- 
ory. Willie knew this, and put in his plea 
for a story as soon as she sat down by his 
side. 

“ Do think of something, Mary,’’ said 
Mrs. Denton, wearily. My mind has been 
on the stretch all day to keep his thoughts 
in a right direction. Nothing exciting, how- 
ever ; some humdrum talk, if that is possible 
for such a bright little body as you are.” 

So Mary sat down where AVillie could look 
right into her eyes, and began to think what 
she should tell him. She had a long list of 
Charlie’s favorite stories from which to choose, 
but they were all suited to a hearty, wide- 
awake boy who wanted to hear about bears 
and lions and shipwrecks, and needed to lis- 
ten to the relations of fearful adventures of 
all kinds to appease his appetite. But noth- 
ing like this would do here. 

Haven’t you ’most thought of some- 
thing?” asked Willie, after his little stock 
of patience had been suddenly exhausted. 

“ Suppose,” said Mary, we do as mother 


116 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


does when she is tired sometimes or cannot 
think of the right kind of a story? She 
says, ^ Let us have a talk and we always 
find it as good as a story.” 

“ I don’t want to talk,” said Willie. But 
then you may.” 

“ I was thinking, Willie, of something we 
talked over the other night. Charlie had 
been asking how the world looked when it 
was all new. It must have been very, very 
beautiful and perfect, for we are told that 
God thought so ; and we may be sure he 
knows, for he is used to heaven.” 

Where did you find that ?” asked Willie, 
eagerly. 

‘‘In the Bible. But you must lie still, 
Willie, or I cannot talk to you at all. Let 
me smooth your hair — so!” 

The little nurse was very happy over the 
thought that here, at last, was somebody 
who needed such teaching and care as she 
could give. 

“ Yes, Willie,” she continued, “ the Bible 
tells us that God saw all that he had made ; 
and, ‘ behold, it was very good.’ That was 
ever so long ago — before there was a single 


LITTLE WILLIE DENTON. 117 

farm or city or railroad or steamboat or news- 
paper.’’ 

‘‘ How did they travel ? What did they 
do?” 

Where would they want to go, Willie ? 
Adam and Eve had all the world to them- 
selves when the earth was just made, and 
that is the time we are talking about, you 
remember. They had nobody to go and see, 
and all the news they had about other think- 
ing creatures must have come from heaven. 
They had a beautiful garden to live in ; God 
had planted it for them. It was not like 
ours, I suppose, with paths and fences and 
flower-beds. There wasn’t anybody’s work 
in it but God’s when Adam went there.” 

“ ‘ Went there ’ !” exclaimed Willie. ‘‘He 
was born there.” 

“So I thought till mother showed me 
where it says that God ‘ put the man which 
he had made into the garden.’ He was 
alone in it for a while with the animals 
before Eve was made. But he could talk 
before he had a human being to speak to, 
for he named the creatures as they came 
to him. Perhaps God and the holy angels 


118 


FIEST THE BLADE. 


often came to be company for him ; for, as 
mother says, he did not seem at all surprised 
when he heard the voice of his heavenly' 
Father moving among the trees in the cool 
of the day, and I think he would have been 
if he had never had a visit from him be- 
fore.” 

“Wasn’t he afraid?” asked Willie. 

“Not until he had done what he knew 
was wrong; then he hid himself.” 

“There’s one thing I’d like to know 
about,” said Willie: “how do you suppose 
he managed if a big tiger and a little lamb 
came up together to get named?” 

“ I don’t know, I am sure. I often think 
of such things — that is, I used to more than 
I do now ; but then I remember everything 
must have been so different when the world 
was good and happy that we cannot imagine 
those days very well. There is one thing 
we may be sure of, and that is that sin made 
all the trouble that ever came into Ihe world. 
Adam and Eve had very pleasant work to do. 
They gathered fruit and took care of the 
garden, because it says they were put there 
‘to dress it and to keep it.’ 


LITTLE WILLIE DENTON. 


119 


‘‘All this,” said Mary, with her mother’s 
lesson fresh in her mind, “ was when the 
world was new. But some day it will be 
worn out and pass away; then God will 
make a new world, more beautiful than 
ever this was, and there will be a new sky 
overhead and a different light shining down 
over all. God will plant another garden for 
his children to walk in. There will be a won- 
derful river flowing through it, and trees 
along its banks. The spring and the sun- 
shine will never fade in that happy land. 
Little children will be there from every 
nation under heaven, and that will make 
the new garden far pleasanter than the old 
one ever was ; for no children lived in that. 
Poor Adam and Eve were turned out of it 
before their flrst baby came. Satan will 
never come into this beautiful garden, and 
none of his friends can ever find their way 
there. Nobody will be sick or die in that 
country, or have any trouble. The poor 
people who were hungry and thirsty and 
tired in this world will all be satisfied if 
they get there. 

“We hear, too, about a great city in that 


120 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


land, with walls of precious stones, and gates 
of pearl, and all its streets of shining gold. 
But, best of all, Willie, Jesus — our best 
Friend — will be there. He said just be- 
fore he died that he was going home to his 
Father’s house to make this happy land ready 
for his friends, and after a few years he came 
back and opened a door in heaven to show 
John, his beloved disciple, what he had been 
doing and how our bright home will look. 
He told John to be sure and tell us all about 
it, and how welcome we are all to come and 
live there and be with him for ever.” 

Here Mary stopped to ask Willie if he 
was tired, for he lay so quietly, with his 
eyes closed, that she feared she had wea- 
ried him or that he had fallen asleep. 

But he was awake and listening with all 
his heart. The dear little boy had never in 
his life heard such a story as this. He had 
heard of God and heaven, but they seemed 
to be subjects that were far beyond his child- 
ish thoughts; and, now that Mary’s voice 
and words were bringing them so near, it 
was like a beautiful dream to him. 

‘‘ Go on, please,” he whispered ; I like 


LITTLE WILLIE DENTON. 


121 


to hear you. What made God do all this 
for us? I didn’t know he was like that.” 

He loves us, Willie — he loves us. There 
isn’t anybody who cares so much, for us as 
he does. That is the reason he let Jesus 
come down to bring us back when we went 
so far away from him.” 

I would like to see that beautiful coun- 
try. wouldn’t you, Mary?” 

‘‘ Yes,” she answered. We all have an 
invitation there; Jesus says ^whosoever will 
may come.’ ” 

Here the doctor came in to see his little 
patient, and Mary rose to go. Willie held 
her hand. 

“ Come again,” he said. I like to hear 
you talk.” 

‘‘Yes, Mary,” added his mother; “come 
and see him to-morrow. He will be better, 
I hope, but he will need your cheerful com- 
pany.” 

But the next morning Willie was no bet- 
ter. The children went over very early to 
inquire about him, and came back with very 
sober faces. Mr. Adair had watched with 
him all night, and met them at the door as 


122 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


he was coining to ask Mrs. Clemson to take 
his place in the sick-room. They all walked 
back to the hotel together. 

It was a bright, breezy morning after the 
gale of the day before, and everything was 
full of life and gayety. The long piazza was 
all astir. Ladies chatted and laughed to- 
gether as they walked up and down with fresh 
morning-dresses fluttering in the breeze ; gen- 
tlemen were reading the papers which had 
just arrived from the city, and discussing 
the news they brought. 

As they passed along through the groups 
of people to reach the great hall- door two 
or three persons stopped Mr. Adair to ask 
about Willie Denton. There was a buzz 
of excitement and regret as the news went 
round that he was lying very near to death. 
A few questions from one and another about 
his symptoms and the doctor’s opinion of 
the case, a few words of sorrow, and then 
they all forgot it— or, at least, they seemed 
to do so. 

‘‘I do not believe,” said Mary as she 
walked along with her mother toward Mrs. 
Denton’s cottage, “ that anybody here would 


LITTLE WILLIE DENTON. 


123 


care if we all were to die and be buried to- 
morrow. Those people in the parlor hardly 
lost the smiles from their faces when I told 
them how very sick Willie is.’^ 

‘‘We cannot expect them to feel as you 
do, of course, my dear.” 

“ But they don^t feel at all.” 

“ We cannot be sure of that, Mary ; there 
is only One who can read hearts. But I 
do not wonder that you are surprised and 
pained at what seems so like indifference.” 

“ I thought,” said Mary, “ that Miss Blake 
would want to hear about him ; so I hunted 
her up to tell her. She always made such a 
pet of Willie. But she only said, ‘ It is too 
bad ! He is such a handsome little fellow, 
and dances so well !’ Then she turned her 
head to speak of it to the ladies who were 
sitting by ; and she happened to see Mr. 
Stevens — that queer young man who made 
us all laugh so the other night at charades. 
He had on one of his wry faces, and that 
made her forget what she was going to say. 
‘ Come along. Miss Ingersoll,^ she said ; ‘ let 
us hear what he is saying now and they 
all got up and went toward him, as though 


124 


FIBST THE BLADE. 


there was nothing but fun to think about. 
I cannot see how she could do so, after all 
the great friendship she professed for Wil- 
lie.” 

‘‘ It is strange,” said Mrs. Clemson. Of 
course she was not a real friend ; but the 
glittering counterfeit she assumed is just 
what we might expect from a person who 
lives merely for present excitement. You 
remember how pleasant such a butterfly life 
as hers seemed to you not long ago ? You 
can see now to what selfishness it leads. 
While Willie could laugh and dance, she 
smiled on him ; but when he lies under the 
hand of death like a little drooping flower, 
she is willing — indeed, she prefers — to has- 
ten along upon her thoughtless way and for- 
get him.” 

Mrs. Clemson found her friends overcome 
with grief and mourning as those who have 
no hope. Not one of this gay and fashion- 
able family had cared to listen to their Sa- 
viour’s voice in their days of health and 
prosperity, and now in sorrow they seemed 
to have no thought or understanding of 
the consolation he could give. 


LITTLE WILLIE DENTON. 125 

Mr. Harry Denton was much more com- 
posed than his mother, and could tell Mrs. 
Clemson what to do for the little sufferer’s 
comfort. 

‘‘ It is very kind in you to come,’’ he said 
as she took his hand. ‘‘ Mother is complete- 
ly discouraged and needs some one to lean 
upon.” 

‘‘How do you feel about the case your- 
self, Mr. Denton?” 

“ Oh, I think he is going, without much 
doubt ; the doctor tells me there is little, if 
any, hope. But we do not tell mother that ; 
she could not bear it.” 

“And yet,” thought Mrs. Clemson, “ how 
soon this burden of sorrow may be laid 
upon her shrinking heart ! Alas for her 
if she has no hope for help or strength 
from above!” 

There were other gentlemen in the room ; 
and so, with a few directions which Mr. 
Denton had to give, Mrs. Clemson went up 
to little Willie’s room. 

“ Let me sit outside the door,” said Mary. 
“ I cannot bear to go away, and I won’t be 
of the least trouble to anybody.” 


126 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Mrs. Clemson thought a moment, and then 
consented. 

I may need you,’’ she said ; ‘‘ and you 
can wait a little while, anyhow.” 

They could hear the little fellow’s moans, 
and sometimes his broken words as he called 
out in his delirium. 

“Do you think,” asked Mary, “that he 
will go to heaven if he dies?” 

“We will pray that God will prepare him 
for that happy home, my daughter, and that 
he will take him there.” 

“I have done that,” said Mary, with a 
voice almost choked with tears, “and you 
know he has promised to do what we ask 
him.” 

“ Yes ; Jesus can reach him even in this 
shadow of death. May he take the little 
lamb to his bosom !” said Mrs. Clemson. 

Mary remembered her talk with Willie 
only the evening before. How he seemed 
to drink in her words as she spoke to him 
of the better land ! She tried to recall 
what she had said to him about Jesus, but 
could remember only that she had men- 
tioned his name and that the little boy 


LITTLE WILLIE DENTON. 


127 


was glad to hear her. Then she thought 
of her mother’s text about the Holy Spirit, 
and of how Jesus himself had promised 
that this blessed Comforter should teach 
us all things. 

“ He can tell Willie more than I can, and 
bring back to his mind all he has ever heard 
about God. Oh that I knew he had ! I will 
pray to him now to do it and, bowing her 
head on the table beside her, she went again 
to the throne of grace to ask that Christ’s 
promise might be there fulfilled to her little 
friend. 

People were passing in and out of the sick- 
room ; friends from a distance arrived ; but 
all that went on around her could not hinder 
her from going in that solemn hour of need 
to. her strong and loving Saviour. How the 
child’s faith rested in him ! How well it is 
that he is so near to us all ! We have no 
long pilgrimage to make to distant lands, or 
any temple to seek or lamb to sacrifice, before 
we can find Jesus. Even when we have 
grieved him by waiting till danger is upon 
us to ask his aid, we find him at our side, 
ready to come with a blessing. 


128 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


The hour that Mary spent outside of Wil- 
lie’s door seemed very long. At last, as the 
day wore on past noon, she heard a sudden 
stir in the room. The door was opened and 
a lady came out, leading Mrs. Denton, who 
was weeping bitterly, across the hall. 

“ It is hard ! It is hard !” she sobbed. 
‘‘I cannot bear it!” 

Mary could now look into the room they 
had left. Her mother was in sight, leaning 
over the little couch. As she stepped aside 
a moment she saw Willie’s face lying white 
and still on the pillow. She ventured in, 
and Mrs. Clemson, seeing her, took her by 
the hand and led her to the bedside. 

Willie seemed to be in a sweet sleep. The 
fresh sea-breeze was drifting in at the open 
window and playing with his soft brown 
curls. The little sunburnt hand lay just 
where Mary had dropped it the night before. 
Mrs. Clemson took it in hers and folded it 
across his breast with its mate. Their work 
was done. 

“ Oh, mother,” sobbed Mary as they stood 
together in the deserted room, “I am glad 
I told him about Jesus last night. But if 


LITTLE WILLIE BENTON. 129 

I had known — if I had only known — he 
was going to die so soon !” 

‘‘We must leave it all now, my darling. 
If we do our duty hour by hour as it lies 
before us, Jesus will take care of the rest 
for us. And there is one thing we may be 
sure of: whatever we may do or leave un- 
done, we know that he will do his part and 
that he loves the lambs. We can leave dear 
little Willie with him.’’ 

“ How strange it is to think how far away 
his soul may now be from us ! Yet he looks 
as though he might wake and tell us that 
he remembered what I told him about Jesus 
and heaven.” 

“ Yes, Mary ; it is difficult to realize that 
he is gone, and that this is only Willie’s 
empty house we are caring for now. Its 
doors and windows are all shut and sealed, 
and its little owner has gone on a long, long 
journey.” 

“Oh how I would like to speak to him 
now, mother! He could tell me so much 
more than I told him last night. If he 
could only send back a letter!” 

“God knows what is best for us in all 


9 


130 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


these things, Mary. Our chief concern must 
be to know and to do his will. Part of our 
duty is to work for him, and part to wait 
for him ; one is as important as the other. 
If you spoke for Jesus last night, you must 
wait now until he shall give you his own 
blessed reward.’’ 

“It is not wrong to want to know what 
good we have done, is it ?” asked Mary. 

“ No, indeed ! But I have found that those 
who love Jesus most trust him most patient- 
ly and wait most joyfully till his time shall 
come. We do not think of payment when 
we work for dear friends, do we ?” 

“ Oh no,” said Mary, thoughtfully. “ But 
it did not strike me that way before.” 


CHAPTER X. 

AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD. 

“Yet thanks to Thee that ever 
Thou comest at our will ; 

Thy voice is heard the clearer 
When all the house is still.” 

I T was a breezy summer morning. The 
sun looked as peacefully down on the 
soft ripples of the sea as though neither had 
ever known a cloud or a storm. Here and 
there on its broad bosom ships were spread- 
ing their sails to catch the wind and were 
gliding swiftly before it. 

A great steamboat came puffing and blow- 
ing up to the crowded pier to take on the 
passengers waiting there for it. Among 
them was the sad procession that was carry- 
ing little Willie to his grave. The children 
had come thus far with their playmate on 
his last journey, and now, standing back on 
the shore, away from the crowd, were wait- 

131 


132 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


ing till the last carriage took its place on 
the steamboat; then the men cast off the 
ropes and let her glide away once more. 

No death had ever come so near to Mary 
and Charlie as this; for when their father 
was called to the better country they were 
too young to remember much about him, 
and since then the years had gone by with- 
out any other loss. It was making a deep 
impression on their hearts especially, though 
all the children felt that a strange break 
had been made in their thoughts and their 
plans. They hardly knew what to do with 
themselves as the steamboat faded away in 
the distance. They lingered on the pier 
until Mr. Adair was ready to return, and 
then very quietly took their places in the 
carriage with him and drove back to the 
hotel. 

“I wish mother hadn’t gone with the 
funeral people,” said Charlie, strolling list- 
lessly into the room where he usually found 
her when at home. “ I don’t like to have 
her stay away such a long, long time as till 
to-morrow. She always has the most beau- 
tiful plans to amuse us when we get dull 


AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD. 133 

and can’t think what to do next. I wish 
she was here.” 

“ What is that ?” asked Mrs. Brainard, 
without lifting her eyes from the paper till 
she had finished the sentence she was writ- 
ing. Has our cheerful Charlie a complaint 
to make?” 

Not exactly, but — ” 

“ Something like it,” replied Aunt Julia, 
who saw that the little boy found it difficult 
to make a clear statement of the case. 

She began to put up her pen and writing- 
materials, as though she knew by experience 
— as she did — what would have to come if 
she was to have any pleasanter time — that 
morning, at least. 

“ Charlie was wishing for mother,” said 
Mary. 

‘‘Ah ! That is not strange. Boys, and 
girls too, have had a way of doing that ever 
since — Well, ever since the first little 
people came into the world.” 

“ The first boy would have had a lone- 
some time of it if his father and mother 
had left him,” said Charlie, brightening up 
a little. “ I don’t think I should like to 


134 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


live anywhere, even in Eden, unless mother 
was there too.” 

‘‘ Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Brainard, smil- 
ing. 

“Don’t you forget, grandma?” exclaimed 
Kittie, eagerly. “ Charlie might have been 
happy there with God and the holy angels 
for company, ’cause my little brother, who 
loved mamma so very, very dearly, spent 
five years in heaven with them and never 
saw her at all till this summer-time.” 

“ You are right, my darling ; those who 
truly love God are always happy with him. 
He gives a joy that no trouble can ever 
take from us. And if Charlie had been 
born in Eden in its sinless days, and his 
heavenly Father had called his mother to 
leave him a while and come and sing before 
the throne, I have no doubt that he would 
have been so sure that God knew best about 
it that he would have given her up and said, 
as Jesus did, ‘Not my will, but thine, be 
done.’ ” 

“But I wasn’t born in Eden, Aunt Julia, 
and so it’s entirely different. I have to feel 
bad when mother goes away ; and I wish 


AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD. 135 

there were no funerals, and that I did not 
get into puzzles and scrapes, and all that.” 

“I know what you mean, Charlie,” said 
his aunt: ‘‘you think sorrow has got into 
the world and we have to make the best of 
it, and that your mother has found out how 
to do that.” 

“That’s so,” said Charlie. “She’s the 
best woman in this world.” 

“ That point being settled,” answered Mrs. 
Brainard, laughing, “ we will not argue about 
it, but will try to do as she would like to 
have us if she were here. What shall it 
be?” 

“ Oh dear ! I don’t know,” sighed Char- 
lie. “ I only wish I did !” 

Kittie brought out her box of jack-straws 
and emptied them on the table in tempting 
confusion ; but after two or three attempts 
to get out a piece without shaking the rest, 
they were tossed back into the box again. 
Charlie could not forget who last played 
jack-straws with him, for there, scored on 
a card, was little Willie’s record in his own 
boyish hand. 

Mrs. Brainard saw that she had better 


136 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


come to the rescue again; so she proposed 
to read them a little story. 

‘‘ But we must do something, grandma,^’ 
said George ; ‘‘ don^t you think so ? We 
are not big like you, and can’t be happy by 
thinking of things.” 

‘‘I know that, my little man. I was 
about asking if any one had a plan to pro- 
pose. Mary is in a brown-study; perhaps 
she will come out with something after 
a while.” 

suppose you mean for us to try and 
do good to somebody?” said Mary. 

“ Yes ; that is one way, and the surest 
way to bring happiness to our own hearts.” 

“ I don’t know of anybody about here 
who needs help, grandma,” said George. 

I made a beautiful canoe yesterday for 
that little Spanish boy, and I thought he 
could play with it in the wash-bowl when 
his mother keeps him in her room so long ; 
but the next thing I knew it was tossed out 
of the window as though it had been a chip. 
There’s no use trying to help some people 
along; they don’t care for anything.” 

“It was not all in vain, Georgie,” said 


AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD. 


137 


his grandmother: ‘'there was the pleasure 
you had in doing it, for one thing/’ 

“ Yes,” added Kittie ; “ and there was 
what his poor tired nurse said when you 
came to the door with it.” 

All the children laughed at this. 

“Why, you couldn’t understand a word 
she said, Kittie,” said Mary. 

“ But she bowed and smiled and seemed 
so pleased.” 

“That was thanks enough, I am sure, 
children. But we must not always do good 
for the thanks we get ; that is not forgetting 
ourselves or following Jesus. We are told 
that he cleansed ten lepers one day, and that 
nine of them went away without thanking 
him.” 

“ I’m sure I’d do something if I only knew 
how,” said Charlie. “ But people won’t let 
you do things when you want to. I’d show 
those children in the next room how to play 
without getting into snarls all the time if 
their mother would let them go with us. 
But she is so afraid of their ribbons and 
things !” 

“I do not mean to propose any needless 


138 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


burden, children,” said Mrs. Brainard ; “ I 
only want you to do good as you have op- 
portunity. We are not to wait till we have 
some great thing to do, for, as your sweet 
hymn says. 


“ ‘ Little deeds of kindness. 
Little words of love, 
Make this earth an Eden 
Like the hea ven above.! ” 


Mrs. Brainard was folding up and direct- 
ing her letters while she talked on, and now 
they were ready and lay in a neat little pile 
on the top of her desk. 

“Did not I hear somebody say just now 
that he would like to do a kindness if he 
knew how?” 

“ It was me,” exclaimed a voice from the 
window where both boys were leaning over 
the sill. 

“Whichever of you it was,” said Mrs. 
Brainard, “ I would advise him to draw in 
his head and look about him a little to see 
if there is not an opportunity under his feet 
now — something to leave undone, at least, 
and perhaps something to do.” 


AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD, 139 

There were two more pairs of eager eyes 
searching the room upon this. 

“ Oh, I see !” said George, springing for- 
ward as his eye fell on Mrs. Brainard’s desk. 
“ Here are grandma’s letters to be taken to 
the post-office.” 

‘‘And her paper to get,” added Charlie. 
“ What was it we were to leave undone ?” 

“ Look at that pretty fresh paper on Mr. 
Nesbit’s wall.” Mr. Nesbit was the hotel- 
keeper. “ Idle feet have been making a sad 
impression under that window. That is al- 
ways the way with dreamers : they are apt 
to forget the good that lies nearest.” 

The boys had Mrs. Brainard’s letters, and 
were already halfway down stairs with them 
before Mary discovered that they were going 
Without her. 

“ Come on,” said Kittie, skipping back. 
“ We’re in such a hurry !” 

“ You can take the letters without me this 
time, Kittie ; I think, after all. I’ll go and 
see Mr. Denton. Mother said I might, but 
I couldn’t make up my mind.” 

“ It was your mother’s plan that you 
should all go, wasn’t it?” asked Mrs. Brain- 


140 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


ard as Kittie went racing off through the 
hall. 

“Yes, ma’am, but Kittie wouldn’t go; 
and the boys made all sorts of excuses to 
get out of it, too, though Mr. Denton asked 
them this morning to come and stay with 
him a while. His man is so stupid, he says, 
and he likes to have children about him. 
I do think they might have tried to please 
him, when he is so kind to us.” 

“ I think I can persuade them,” said Mrs. 
Brainard. “I would go myself if he had 
not shown so marked a preference for your 
society. Perhaps,” she continued, as though 
the thought had just come to her, “ God 
may use the voice of a little child to lead 
this proud unbeliever into his kingdom. 
He often does.” 

Mary looked very sober, but said nothing. 
It was the very thought which had been 
in her mind ever since Mr. Denton had 
given her that first searching look. 

Henry Denton was now the only child 
left to his widowed mother. Since the death 
of her husband, ten years before, she had 
been three times to the little village church- 


AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD. 141 

yard where he was buried to lay her children, 
one after another, down by his side. Her 
journey that morning was the saddest one 
of all, for her earthly treasures were lessen- 
ing very fast, and she could not feel, as God’s 
children do, that by these afflictions he was 
preparing her for a better and more endur- 
ing inheritance. 

Willie was a bright, manly little fellow, 
and had promised better for a long life than 
any of her family. Yet, as if to give her a 
deeper lesson on the uncertainty of all mere 
earthly hopes than she had ever before 
learned, he had been stricken down most 
suddenly of all. It was like a painful dream 
to her, and she could not realize the truth 
until she came to look on his fair young face 
as he lay ready for the grave. Then it was 
sad to see her hopeless and helpless agony as 
she bade him farewell, as though the joyous 
spirit so much a part of her own life was im- 
prisoned in that senseless clay, and must soon 
be for ever buried from her sight where no 
sunshine could reach him; and no promise 
of a glorious resurrection from the dead re- 
mained for her. 


142 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Her eldest child, Harry, now her only 
prop, was a helpless invalid too feeble to 
bear the exciting scenes around him with- 
out great suffering of mind and of body. 
It was a relief to him that day when all 
had gone and the house was quiet. Several 
friends had insisted on remaining with him, 
but he refused all such aid, declaring that 
sleep was all he wanted, and that would 
come if he could be alone. 

But as the hours went on, and kind Na- 
ture’s sweet restorer” would not come, the 
silence became oppressive. Books and pa- 
pers might have diverted his thoughts, but 
his eyes could bear the strain of reading 
only a few moments at a time, and he had 
no patience with the efforts made by his 
well-meaning but blundering attendant to 
supply their lack of service. So, when Mary 
came in, Bryan was excused for a while and 
sent to do something for which he had more 
genius than for reading. 

‘‘You are as welcome as are flowers in 
May,” said Mr. Denton, reaching his hand 
to grasp hers. “ Where are the rest of you ? 
Ah ! I know,” he added, seeing Mary was hesi- 


AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD. 143 

tating for an excuse : ‘‘ it is too bright out- 
side to stay in-doors unless one is tied down 
as I am. But I am thankful that any one 
is willing to come to such dismal quarters 
to cheer me up.” 

“ ril read to you,” said Mary, taking up 
a paper, “ or do anything I can to amuse 
you.” 

“Here,” he said, “is a long letter from 
Japan with news from our squadron. You 
might find something in that.” 

“ I’ll read it all, Mr. Denton ; I am sure 
you must want to hear about your ship.” 

“ Yes,” said he, rather listlessly ; “ I want 
to hear, and I do not want to. When a fel- 
low is fairly knocked up, as I am, it is not 
inspiriting to hear what is going on outside. 
Everything but me is astir and pushing on. 
Heigh-ho ! I cannot even yawn without pay- 
ing for the privilege with a groan. But do 
not look so sorrowful over it,” he added, 
laughing. “That is the way the world 
moves round : one half’s up, while the other 
goes down.” 

“ I think,” said Mary as she glanced over 
the letter, “there is somebody sick besides 


144 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


you. It says Lieutenant Fane was left at 
Nagasaki with a fever.’’ 

“ Fane ? Poor fellow ! Well, old Charon 
had booked him, anyhow. He was a hard 
drinker, and will not be likely to get through. 
I am sorry to hear it, though, for my misery 
does not want company. Look on farther ; 
perhaps you can find something more cheer- 
ful.” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Mary ; ‘‘ here’s something. 
The commodore has been attending a grand 
dinner-party in the city and with a very 
animated voice she read of the banners and 
music and speeches, thinking that here, at 
last, was something the poor invalid could 
bear to hear. But she was mistaken ; he 
was listening only to please her, and would 
have tossed the paper away if he could. 

Do not trouble yourself,” he said at last. 

I am hard to please with newspaper chat ; 
it sets me to thinking too much. Tell me 
about yourself. Miss Mary. What do you 
think about, little puss? Something fresh 
and cheery, no doubt.” 

But she looked grave enough then, though 
she tried to smile in return. Child as she 



The Invalid Officer 


Page 145 






AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD. 145 

was, she could feel that here was a famishing 
heart craving what it did not possess. She 
could not understand all its weariness nor 
measure its pain, for she had never been, 
as he had, through all the round of earthly 
ambition and pleasure to find them vanity, 
but she knew from the weary look that set- 
tled on his face when in repose that he had 
nothing to which to look forward. Yet 
might he not even now come to himself 
and say, ‘‘ There is bread enough in my 
Father’s house, and to spare, while I per- 
ish with hunger. I will arise and go to 
my Father”? 

Bryan was now called in to draw the 
lounge through the low French window 
out on the piazza, where the poor invalid 
might have more of the fresh and bracing 
air for which he had come to the sea-beach. 

The unusual excitement through which he 
had been passing or the gradual failure of his 
strength, or both together, had wrought a 
great change in Mr. Denton since Mary had 
last seen him out of -doors. 

This bright sunshine makes a sad picture 
of me,” said he as she was arranging his pil- 
10 


146 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


lows. But never mind/^ he added, lightly ; 
‘‘ it won^t be so always.” 

‘‘I think, sir,” said Bryan, I may 
make bold to say it, that you would be the 
better of an hour’s sleep after you have had 
your broth.” 

‘‘Can’t do it, Bryan. I wish I could.” 
His eyes closed wearily, and he turned 
away as though he was tired of all the 
world. “ You may go, Bryan ; I want 
nothing so much as to be let alone.” 

Mary scarcely knew whether to go or to 
stay, but sat with quite an anxious look for 
so young a face till Mr. Denton spoke. 

“ Do not mind anything I say to Bryan,” 
he said when the man had left ; “I am al- 
ways cross with him. He is continually 
looking at me as though I had lost my 
senses and he was contriving how to fill up 
the gap with his.” 

“He would hardly be able to do that, 
sir,” said Mary, quite reassured by his re- 
turning cheerfulness. “ I think he is very 
sorry for you and does not know how to 
show it.” 

“ I suppose so,” was the reply ; “ he is one 


AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD. 


147 


of the kindest-hearted creatures in the world. 
Mother says she heard him praying for me 
up in his room the other dayf’ and Mr. 
Denton was very much amused at the 
thought. 

“ Do you think that is so strange ?” asked 
Mary, shocked at his levity, but too much 
roused by it any longer to shrink from 
speaking to him. 

‘‘It is not strange for him to do it, of 
course — it is just like him; but it is a great 
waste of time and feeling, if he did but 
know it. However, every one to his no- 
tion.” 

“I pray for you too, Mr. Denton,” said 
Mary, with a voice trembling with emotion. 
“ I pray to God every day that he may open 
your eyes to see and to know the kind Sa- 
viour.” 

Mr. Denton looked at her a moment in 
mute but respectful surprise. Little did he 
know the depth of feeling which prompted 
her words or what a struggle had gone be- 
fore them. A cold smile lighted up his face 
as he spoke : 

“ Thank you. Miss Mary. You are a lit- 


148 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


tie saint, I know ; and if there is anything 
in prayer, yours may do me good. But I 
doubt it.” 

“ I know you do,” she answered. “ You 
don’t see the truth at all, because you don’t 
look the right way.” 

How do you know that ?” he asked, so- 
berly. I have read the Bible in the course 
of my life as much as you have, it is likely, 
and I have studied the opinions of great and 
wise men about it ; and yet I do not see in 
its words what you and your good mother 
do. But I shall not quarrel with you about 
it,” he said, very pleasantly, ‘‘ for that would 
be foolish indeed. I do not want to lose 
a dear little friend like you for the sake of 
an idle notion.” 

“Oh, Mr. Denton,” she exclaimed, “we 
have no right to have any idle notions about 
God. We must listen carefully to his words 
and follow right on to obey them, so as to 
be ready to answer when he calls us to ac- 
count.” 

“ I have heard, my little preacher, and yet 
here I am, a grief and a distress of mind to 
you. How is that ?” he asked, with a smile 


AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD. 


149 


that showed very plainly that, beyond the 
amusement her earnestness afforded him, he 
cared nothing for her words. 

‘‘ You have not heard with your heart, 
Mr. Denton : that makes all the difference 
in finding out about God.” 

You must explain yourself. Miss Mary, 
if you want a poor sinner like me to under- 
stand you. That is the way missionaries do, 
is it not ?” 

There was a sneer in his words which 
chilled Mary to the heart. She had never 
felt her ignorance and weakness as she did 
now with the proud man before her, so sat- 
isfied with himself and so blind to his great 
danger. For a moment she was discouraged 
about any effort she had made or ever coulT 
make to warn him. She felt that he already 
considered her presuming, and she was half 
inclined to think she had been. Should she 
go on and answer him, or not ? And then 
the thought came rushing into her mind that 
he might be as near to death as Willie was 
when she spoke to him of Jesus, and she 
remembered she had been asking for an 
opportunity. Here it was, and Mr. Denton 


150 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


himself had opened the wa3^ No; she 
would not draw back for the sake of her 
own feelings. Jesus asks only a heart given 
up to him, and he can put in it a power of 
his own which can move mountains of sin 
and ignorance and trouble. 

The wisdom and power of faith came to 
Mary when she looked away from herself to 
Jesus in this hour of heed : 

I would not speak to you, sir, about any- 
thing else in this way, because you know so 
much more than I do ; but there are things 
that nobody can find out unless he goes to 
God to learn. He is just as willing to tell 
little children as he is to tell grown peo- 
ple; so he showed me when I asked him, 
and he’ll show you. Won’t you ask him to 
teach you, Mr. Denton? You can’t study 
it out for yourself; for if it took study to 
make Christians, little children could never 
find the way.” 

Mr. Denton heard her through, as though 
he meant to be as kind to her as possible. 

“ I have no doubt,” he replied, “ that you 
are very sincere, my little friend, and enjoy 
your notions very much, but you must allow 


AN EFFORT TO DO GOOD. 151 

me to have mine ; and if I choose to take a 
more cheerful view of such things than you 
do, you cannot blame me. I have a dull 
time of it at best. Will you call Bryan? 
I think I shall have to go in now.’’ 


CHAPTER XI. 

MB. DENTON^S PARTY. 

“ Lord, give me patience to abide 
The unknown workings of thy will.’^ 

W ITH all the pain he was constantly suf- 
fering, Mr. Denton had not until then 
parted from Mary without a smile and a 
cordial invitation to come again. He was 
very weak now, it is true, after an almost 
sleepless night and the excitement of the 
morning, and could not be expected to waste 
many words on any subject; but Mary, al- 
ways so sensitive to the opinion of others, 
was very much troubled about this omission. 
She was sure, as she thought the visit over 
on her walk home, that she had offended 
Mr. Denton, and that he would never want 
to see her again. 

Was this the way she was called to work 
for Jesus, or had she made a mistake ? She 

152 


MR. DENTON’S PARTY. 153 

had not counted upon this loss — upon any 
loss, in fact. In the prayer she had offered 
up to Jesus for work in his vineyard, she 
had not thought of anything but success, 
and there never had been a time, even when 
she was so dazzled by a life of luxury and 
ease as to despise her humble tasks at home, 
when the thought of that was not very pleas- 
ant to her and more of an object (though 
she did not suspect it) than the glory of 
God. Still, it was humble faith in Jesus 
which had helped her through her conver- 
sation with Mr. Denton. But her Saviour 
loved her too well to leave her to choose her 
own work or her own way in this world ; so 
he led her into a path where she would see 
what it was to glorify him rather than her- 
self. 

It was bathing- hour when she reached 
the hotel, and her friends were down on 
the beach. Mrs. Brainard had left word 
that if Mary came back in time she was 
to follow them there. But Mary had no 
heart to-day for her usual frolic in the surf, 
and chose to wander about the empty rooms 
in a very disconsolate way until the others 


154 


FIRST THE BLADE, 


came back. Her patience was not very 
much to be relied on at best, and it was not 
very long before it gave out in so dull an 
atmosphere as that. If she could have had 
a place in which to hide away entirely, she 
would have cried. But Charlie would come 
racing after her with his questions, and so 
that was impossible. There seemed to be 
nothing for her but to swallow her grief and 
chagrin, and to put the best face on the mat- 
ter ; for, strange to say, after the ‘‘ line upon 
line” she knew of God’s word, she forgot 
in that time of need to tell her Father in 
heaven anything about her trouble. 

The children came home with very hap- 
py faces: 

‘‘We have had a splendid time! Why 
didn’t you come down, Mary ?” 

“ I was tired ; besides, it was late, and I 
thought you would all be ready to come out 
of the water before I was ready to go in.” 

All this was a good enough excuse, and 
true as far as it went ; for the little face that 
Mrs. Brainard took between her hands to 
kiss looked weary enough to tell its own 
story without words. 


MR, DENTON’S PARTY. 155 

‘‘ Tired of what, dear asked her aunt. 

‘‘ People can’t always tell why they are 
tired, can they, Aunt Julia?” 

‘‘Certainly not; but aunties like me are 
very apt to look into such matters, you know, 
especially when mothers are away. But I 
have not yet asked you how you found 
Mr. Denton.” 

“ Very weak indeed,” was the low reply. 

“ Too feeble to see you all if you were to 
go ? I have persuaded the children, on our 
way up from the beach, to go with you to 
see him this afternoon.” 

Mary was so quiet over this proposal that 
her aunt wondered; but she said nothing, 
thinking that the trouble in her little niece’s 
heart would either wear away before it was 
time to go or else find a better explanation 
than she seemed ready to give now. 

But when the hour came for the visit, 
the children were very much astonished 
over Mary’s quiet announcement that she 
was not going. 

“ Oh yes, you are,” said Kittie, coaxingly. 
“ We can’t go without you.” 

“I mean just what I say; so please don’t 


156 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


say anything more about it,” answered Mary, 
firmly. 

Charlie whistled very loudly and provok- 
ingly upon this, and George, who was always 
stirred up with the least of Charlie’s jokes, 
set in with a laugh ; all of which, with what 
had gone before, was too much for poor Mary, 
who ran off to her mother’s room to get away 
from them all and to hide the tears which 
had so long been pent up. 

Kittie would have followed her with in- 
quiry and comfort, but her grandmother held 
her back : 

“Let her alone, dear; we all like to be 
left alone sometimes. And I think you had 
better go without Mary this afternoon.” 

After a little more ado, they were off ; but 
Mrs. Brainard had scarcely settled herself to 
the letter-writing so broken in upon by the 
events of the day when there came a tap at 
the door. It was Bryan, sent to inquire if 
the children could stay to tea with Mr. 
Denton. 

“ It do cheer him up amazin’ to have them 
around,” said he, “ begging pardon ” with 
many bows for the liberty of speech he was 


MR. DENTON^S PARTY. 157 

taking. Miss Mary, now, tliis morning : 
she read the paper to him far better nor I 
could, and she such a slip of a girl and he 
so partickler — leastways, he is with me. 
But I don’t complain, ma’am ; he is a suffer- 
in’ man, and I’ve set my mind on doing what 
I can for him while he is in this world.” 

“ You never forget, I hope, that he is on 
his way to another world ?” said Mrs. Brain- 
ard, who had heard Bryan spoken of as a 
Christian man. 

“ No, ma’am, but we have no words togeth- 
er on the subjeck, for he’s a scholar and I am 
not ; and he has a great deal of this world’s 
wisdom to bring agin my faith. But you 
know, ma’am, that when a poor body like me 
takes hold on the arm of the Lord, there may 
be overcomingness in the grip ; so I must fetch 
him that way.”. 

“ It is the only way, Bryan. Keep fast 
hold of that soul and the Saviour by prayer, 
and they may be brought into a life-giving 
union.” 

‘^May I tell you, ma’am,” said Bryan — 
“ for perhaps you would like to know — 
that little Miss Mary and the master had a 


158 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


talk this morning all by theirselves? ’Twas 
but a word I heard as I passed by, but I saw 
how it was when I came in again to draw the 
lounge through the winder. I says to myself, 
‘ Lord bless her and put power into her 
words.’ Mr. Denton was very high and 
mighty, no doubt, over what she said ; but 
there’s One can bring him low, and that’s 
where he’ll have to get afore he enters in.” 

“Here,” thought Mrs. Braiuard, “is the 
clue to Mary’s trouble to-day. Dear child! 
May the Lord guide and accept her feeble 
efforts 1” 

Bryan had a busy time when he got back. 
There was a tea-table to be improvised in the 
parlor, close by Mr. Denton’s chair. 

“ Something cozy, Bryan,” said he. “ We 
are going to have a tea-party. I am to be 
grandfather, and Miss Kittie is to preside. 
— Had you not better go with Bryan and be- 
speak the entertainment, little housekeeper? 
Make a raid on all mother’s stores, and send 
out for more if there is not enough in the 
pantry.” 

Kittie’s eyes sparkled with delight. 

“ Have you any little dishes here, Bryan,” 


MR. DENTON^S PARTY. 


159 


she whispered, “with a tea-pot so high?” 
with her two chubby hands measuring the 
exact height of one which she had seen 
once, and which she had fondly cherished 
in her memory for weeks as the prettiest 
little tea-pot in the world. 

“ Yes, yes. Miss Kittie ; and what we 
can’t find here we’ll beg next door.” 

“That’s a bright idea, Bryan,” said Mr. 
Denton. “ Borrow Mrs. Silvey’s china tete- 
a-tete set, which, with mine, will be enough 
for the little lady’s fancy.” 

It was a goodly array, Kittie thought, and 
the time to gather round the table was very 
slow in coming. 

“Shall I be tea-potter?” she asked as 
modestly as was consistent with her hope- 
ful glee. 

“ Certainly, Miss Kittie and Mr. Den- 
ton kept his face as sober as was possible 
under the circumstances. — “Help her up, 
Bryan. Isn’t the chair high enough ? Pile 
on a dictionary or two. I want to see her 
over that tea-pot.” 

“ Isn’t it pretty and nice ?” said she, lift- 
ing the lids to look at the tea and the sugar 


160 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


before Bryan had her fairly balanced on her 
seat. 

“ I think so,” was the reply ; but when 
he said it, Mr. Denton was not at all looking 
where Kittie did. 

“ How do you take your tea, sir ?” asked 
the little matron, pouring out and mixing 
things without waiting to hear his answer. 

‘‘ Just as you do. Miss Kittie.” 

‘‘Send him the milk-pitcher and sugar- 
bowl, and let him suit himself. That is the 
way ladies do,” said George, who thought it 
was high time that Kittie^s wild career should 
be a little checked. 

“By no means, George,” exclaimed the 
host, with a wink at that grave youngster. 
“It’s charming as it is.” 

Kittie was flushed and triumphant, and 
went on pouring milk, tea and sugar into 
the cups that were continually passed to her, 
till Mrs. Denton’s maid, coming in to see 
where the frequent relays of milk were go- 
ing, stood in the open door and laughed to 
see Mr. Denton, who always took his tea 
clear and strong, pouring down cup after 
cup of a mixture as various in its propor- 


MR. DENTON^S PARTY. 


161 


tions as the materials on the little tray ad- 
mitted of. 

I am afraid you are neglecting yourself, 
Miss Kittie.” 

Oh no, I thank you ; Bryan has helped 
me.’’ 

‘‘ Sure enough, sir,” said that official. 
‘‘ Here it is, all piled up beside her plate.” 

I’m going to eat now and Kittie be- 
gan after the fashion most endeared to every 
childish heart, and, with cake first and bread 
and butter for old acquaintance’ sake, finished 
her meal in time to leave the table with the 
rest. 

“I never had such a nice supper in all 
my life,” she said, with a sigh of satisfac- 
tion. 

Nor I,” exclaimed Mr. Denton. Never !” 

“Cake first and all!” said George, who 
had had time to observe the proprieties. 
“What would grandma say?” 

“Never mind, George; cake is as good 
any day as bread and butter are. It ought 
to come first sometimes.” 

Mr. Denton was old enough to know, so 
the subject was dropped. 

11 


162 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Charlie, who had been the only one in 
the party who had given that strict atten- 
tion to the eatables which growing boys 
generally pay to a supper-table, had leisure 
at last to bring out some home-experience 
that struck admiration to the heart of every 
beholder. The supper-dishes were to pile 
and clear away, and Bryan got so mixed up 
with the small folks that he forgot he was 
not one of them. 

‘‘That isn’t the way my mother does,” 
said Charlie, watching him with becoming 
sobriety. “ Let me take hold there.” 

“Stand aside, Bryan,” said Mr. Denton, 
with a wave of his hand. “ Honor to whom 
honor is due. Let us give the Clemsons a 
fair chance now.” 

“ We take off the silver first,” said Char- 
lie, with a dangerous clatter extricating some 
spoons from a tipsy pile of plates Bryan had 
just dropped in obedience to orders. “ Now 
they go so, with the biggest at the bottom,” 
arranging them accordingly. 

“ Now, that is what I call orthodox,” 
said the host ; while Ann, coming in to 
give the finishing stroke, whispered in a 


MR . , BENTON’S PARTY. 1 63 

hearty aside, as she bore off the remains 
of the feast, 

Dearie me ! He do know, don’t he ?” 

“ But I tell you what,” said Charlie : “ I 
like Mr. Denton to see to the eating part. 
Wasn’t that jolly ?” 

All at once Kittie sobered down as she 
stood by Mr. Denton’s chair. She was 
thinking of Willie — dear little Willie — 
and whispered his name : 

‘‘We shouldn’t laugh so. Did you for- 
get?” 

“No, no! How could I?” groaned Mr. 
Denton, throwing his head wearily back. 
“I want to forget some things. I have 
enough dark hours.” 

And so he had. The long night now 
setting in had no peaceful thoughts in 
store for him. Smile as he might with 
these bright young faces about him, it was 
but for a moment ; then all was dark again. 
No light was shining for him across the lit- 
tle grave which had just been opened at his 
feet ; no hope was beaming beyond that 
other world which he feared was waiting 
for him beside it. 


164 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“ Saj not ’tis tliy pulse’s beating : 

’Tis thy heart of sin ^ 

’Tis thy Saviour knocks and calleth 
‘ Eise and let me in !’ ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

FRESH EXPERIENCES. 

“Thou hast given me the heritage of those that fear Thy 
name.” 

C HARLIE’S boisterous joy over his moth- 
er’s expected return began the next 
morning before he was fairly out of bed. 
He dressed and ate his breakfast in such 
haste that he had more time to dispose of 
than usual before the boat was due. He 
could not spend it on the road to the pier, 
and he was too anxious to go to meet his 
mother to enjoy his usual bath, seeing that 
the omnibus might go off without him. 

But he and Mary found themselves at last 
by the water-side waiting till their mother 
should make her appearance in the stream 
of passengers which daily poured from the 
arriving boat. Charlie had scrambled down 
from the top of the omnibus, where he had 

165 


166 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


been perched beside the driver, and stood 
with his sister where he could spring for- 
ward at the first glimpse of her. 

But the last passengers were in sight, and 
she was not among them. The children ran 
through the empty cabins, and then came 
back to their starting-point with very anx- 
ious hearts. Neither of them had ever be- 
fore been so long away from their mother, 
and, having seen very little of the world, 
some unreasonable fears presented them- 
selves. 

“ Say, Mary,” said Charlie, pulling at her 
hand to attract her attention, ‘‘do you suppose 
mother will come back ?” 

“ Why, of course she will, Charlie. What 
made you think she wouldn^t?” 

“ Nothing made me,” said Charlie, evasive- 
ly; “only — Well, things do happen some- 
times, you know.” 

The troubled expression on both faces at- 
tracted the attention of an old gentleman 
who stood not far away. 

“ Is anybody disappointed here?” he asked, 
in a kindly tone, and laying his hand in a 
fatherly way on Charlie’s shoulder. 


FBESH EXPERIENCES. 


167 


‘‘ We were expecting mother, and she has 
not come,” said Mary. 

‘‘Ah! that is the trouble, is it? Well, I 
should think it could all be explained. 
Where was she coming from?” 

“Fairview, sir.” 

“Ah ! She was late for the train, perhaps, 
or it missed a connection somewhere. No; 
that can't be, for there is a gentleman who 
has just come through from Fairview.” 

On inquiry, it was found that there was 
no other way-train from Fairview for twen- 
ty-four hours. 

“ There may be a letter or a telegram 
for you at home which will clear up the 
mystery,” he suggested. 

The children had not thought of that, 
and made haste to get on the omnibus, 
which was just about starting for the hotel. 
They found that the old gentleman was go- 
ing the same way ; so they took a seat beside 
him. 

“ Seems to me I ought to know who you 
are by this time,” he said, looking into their 
faces. “Mary and Charlie Clemson,” he 
exclaimed, repeating the words slowly after 


168 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


them. ‘‘ I knew people of that name once ; 
their names were Charles and Mary too. 
They lived in Mapleton, on the Hudson. 
Excellent young people they were. You 
look like them.’’ 

Our house is in Mapleton, on the Hud- 
son Kiver, and father used to say we were 
the only Clemson family who ever lived 
there,” said Mary. 

‘‘ Well, well ! Then you must really be the 
grandchildren of Charles Clemson, the friend 
of the poor, the widow and the fatherless, 
the famous peacemaker who cheated so 
many lawyers out of their fees. So you 
are named for him, my boy? Well, all I 
can say is that you come of a royal line, and 
you must see to it that the honor of the fam- 
ily is kept up. Tell your mother when she 
comes home — as I hope she will to-morrow — 
that I shall do myself the pleasure of soon 
calling upon her — that Mr. Griffith of Bos- 
ton desires to renew an old and valued ac- 
quaintance. She will know who I am and 
the old gentleman took his beaming face out 
of the omnibus. 

Mr. Griffith had spoken loudly enough to 


FRESH EXPERIENCES. 


169 


be heard by every one around him, and the 
children were so much embarrassed to find 
themselves thus observed that they did not 
notice at which hotel he got out. They 
were soon informed, however. A flashily- 
dressed young man who sat near remarked 
to his companion, 

‘‘ That is Griffith, the millionaire. Queer 
old chap. Puts up at the Selwyn House. — 
Play your cards well, boy,” turning to Char- 
lie, ‘‘ and you may get something handsome 
out of the old fellow.” 

A sweet- voiced and sweet-faced lady in a 
Quaker bonnet who sat opposite leaned over 
at this and whispered, with a smile, 

Thee’ll find that a good name is rather 
to be chosen than great riches, and loving 
favor rather than silver and gold.” 

Charlie flushed with pleasure at the kind 
allusion to what Mr. Griffith had said of the 
grandfather whom he never had seen, and 
he did not forget, when he came to give Mrs. 
Brainard an account of their strange intro- 
duction to Mr. Griffith, to tell what an im- 
pression had been made on their fellow-pas- 
sengers. 


170 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


‘‘What did that man mean, Aunt Julia? 
What is a ‘ millionaire ’ ? How could 1 make 
‘something handsome’ out of Mr. Griffith?” 

“One question at once, Charlie, if you 
please. A millionaire is a man who is worth 
a million or more of dollars. That man 
knew that Mr. Griffith was very rich and 
had no children living, and he was advis- 
ing you to get all the money you could out 
of him because he is such a friend of the 
family.” 

“ How mean !” exclaimed Charlie, indig- 
nantly. “Did the fellow think I was a 
beggar ?” 

“He was only judging of your feelings 
by his own, Charlie ; in his estimate of life 
money is no doubt the principal thing. 
Your Quaker friend had a different opin- 
ion ; she thinks, as I do, that you have no 
inheritance like the good name your father 
and your grandfather left. You are too 
young to know all it is worth to you, but 
some day you will understand, no doubt, 
that ‘a good name is rather to be chosen 
than great rjches, and loving favor rather 
than silver and gold.’ ” 


FRESH EXPERIENCES. 


171 


The evening mail brought the expected 
message from Mrs. Clemson. Charlie, to 
whom the letter was addressed, read it aloud 
to the company with so many flourishes and 
additions of his own that an eavesdropper 
might have thought he was having a con- 
versation with the writer, in this wise : 

My Dear Son; 

% 

Isn’t this the first letter that ever came to you 
through the post-office? 

^‘’Course it is r 

I suppose you would rather do without it, however, 
than have your mother stay away when you were 
expecting her home? 

‘'That’s a fact!” 

I hope that you have been a very good boy — 

“Haven’t I, Aunt Julia?” 

• — as you generally are. 

“ Hurrah ! D’ye hear that, Mary ?” 

I am not sure whether I shall come home to-mor- 
mor or stay over Sunday with Mrs. Denton at her 
old home. 

“ Oh dear I Two days more ! I wish she 
had never gone away.” 


172 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


If I remain, it will be because Mrs. Denton is not 
able to return. 

Can’t she get along without my mother ?” 

I would not disappoint you so if I had not read in 
the Bible that we must do unto others as we would 
that others should do unto us. 

« Why can’t Mrs. Denton ‘ do unto others ’ 
too, I’d like to know ?” 

You may come down to the boat for me to-morro^ 
if you wish — 

« Won’t I, though !” 

— but if I should not come, try and be patient. Both 
my children need to learn that lesson. 

“ That’s for you, Mary !” 

Give dearest love and a kiss to all. 

From your loving mother, 

Maey L. Clemson. 

Mary too had a letter, from Emily Grant, 
which we must read with her, but not quite 
in Charlie’s fashion : 

Dear Mary: Don’t you tell, for all the world, 
what’s in this letter ! I expect to go to Switzerland 
to school for two years. Mamma has a sister there, 
you know, and she has sent for me to come. This is 


FRESH EXPERIENCES. 


173 


a great secret, though, for we are not sure that papa 
can afford it. Papa has had no end of trouble in his 
business lately. I feel so bad about it sometimes I 
don’t know what to do. 

Now, Mary Clemson, you’re not to tell this for any- 
thing, will you? I know you won’t, for you are so 
much better than I am, if I never did own it before. 

Auntie says I need not get any handsome new 
dresses if I come, for young ladies dress so much 
more simply over there than they do here. Your 
dresses would suit better than mine for that reason. 
Wouldn’t it be nice if you could go too, Mary? Mrs. 
Brain ard has such heaps of money I should think 
she could take you to Europe as well as not; only 
your mother is so particular she wouldn’t like to ask 
her to do it. 

Won’t Miss Williams be mad when she finds I’m 
going to leave her pokey old school ? I’m glad to go 
away, if it’s only to spite her. I know I never was 
really a favorite with her, though she pretended that 
I was, to please papa, because she thought he had 
money. Don’t you stay with her a minute longer 
than you can help, and tease your mother to let you 
go with me, won’t you ? 

Now, Mary, be sure and not tell anybody what 
I’ve told you in this letter. With lots of love from 
us all, I am 

Your true friend, 

Emily. 


“ Do you think it is very wrong to want 


174 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


to tell other people’s secrets, Aunt Julia?” 
questioned Mary as she lingered to say 
“Good-night.” 

“ No, dear ; a secret is sometimes a very 
burdensome thing. I always have to share 
mine with my best Friend.” 

Still the hand was on the latch, and the 
fair young face looked so anxious that Mrs. 
Brainard, who remembered that “ mother ” 
was gone, called Mary back to the seat she 
had just left. 

“Perhaps I already know what troubles 
you, dear child,” she said, stroking back the 
brown curls. “Your letter to-night was 
from Emily Grant of Mapleton. Am I 
not right?” 

“ Yes, auntie.” 

“ I saw the postmark,” said Mrs. Brainard. 
“ It should have been here before, since it was 
mailed on the tenth. It is likely that Emily 
knew then of her father’s business troubles. 
To-night’s paper has later news, which con- 
firms all his fears. His name is reported in 
a list of failures yesterday. He is likely to 
lose everything.” 

“Oh, auntie, it can’t be possible! Lose 


FRESH EXPERIENCES. 


175 


the beautiful new house, and the carriages, 
and Emily’s pony, and — and — ” 

Mary was startled to think how nearly 
she had betrayed her friend’s confidence. 

“You need not tell me Emily’s secret, 
dear, but be sure and tell Jesus; he can 
help her.” 

“ She isn’t a Christian, auntie. She says 
that she doesn’t want to be until she is ever 
so much older.” 

“ That’s nothing, Mary ; she may hear 
her Saviour’s gentle voice in this time of 
trial as she never did before. Let us pray 
that she may,” said Mrs. Brainard. 

What Emily had written in her letter 
about plain clothes was just what might 
have been expected from that outspoken 
young lady ; but, often as she had said 
these hard things, Mary had never learned 
to bear them patiently until that night. 

“ Poor Emily !” she thought ; “ it will be 
ever so much harder for her not to have a 
pony and to wear made-over dresses than 
it is for me. And she can’t go to Switzer- 
land, either. Dear me! how many strange 
things are happening now in Mapleton 1” 


176 


FIEST THE BLADE. 


In the press of such thoughts as these her 
head had nestled on its pillow before she 
remembered that she had intended to tell 
Jesus all about Emily, and how much her 
friend was just then needing him. She arose 
and knelt by her bedside with a new feeling 
suddenly springing up in her heart for which 
as yet she had no words. Was not the 
Friend who stooped to hear her prayer 
Emily’s Friend too? Yes, she could reach 
her through him. The barriers between them 
seemed all at once to melt away before Him 
to whom all power is given in heaven and 
on earth. How near he was, how ready to 
hear her prayer and to seek and save the 
wandering lamb who as yet knew not the 
Shepherd’s voice! Yet this was the same 
young Christian who only the day before 
had forgotten to take a far deeper trouble 
than this to Jesus! As she had once said, 
she seemed to be “beginning, beginning, 
beginning, all the time,” and had to learn 
over and over again the simplest lessons 
of faith. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


ABOUT GRANDFATHER CLEMSON 

“ I would not halve my service : 

His only it must be — 

His only — who so loved me, 

And gave himself for me.” 

F our children instead of two were down 
on the wharf to meet Mrs. Clemson 
when at last, after many delays, she came 
home. 

‘‘Mother,” said Charlie, nestling close to 
her as they rode back in the great hotel 
omnibus, “ we had the queerest Sunday you 
ever saw. We didn’t go to church or Sun- 
day-school, or read our Bibles or anything 
till night; then Mary said it was too bad, 
and she read to us about Moses in the bul- 
rushes. You see. Aunt Julia was ever so 
sick, and we couldn’t be with her ; and Mr. 
Nesbit said that Sunday wasn’t coming any 
nearer than the flagstaff that day because he 

12 177 


178 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


was short of preachers. Mr. Denton sent 
Bryan after breakfast to ask all of us to 
come over and take dinner with him, and 
we went early. He teased Mary aw'fully all 
day, but she never got mad a bit. First she 
told how him your great-grandmother came 
over in the Mayflower, and he laughed and 
said, ‘ Well, well ! I have always wished 
that that boat-load of prigs had been scut- 
tled before they landed, but now I am glad 
that some of them came ashore.’ He wouldn’t 
call her anything but ‘ Saint Mary, Jr.,’ after 
that.” 

“ Dear child !” thought Mrs. Clemson, 
looking over to the corner to which Mary 
had retreated after patiently giving up to 
Charlie the coveted seat by mother; ‘‘she 
is certainly improving.” 

But that evening Mary was her old self 
again. Who could want to be with mother 
so much as she did ? Her young heart was 
burdened with new perplexities, and she 
grew impatient with everybody and every- 
thing that came between her and the one 
friend to whom she could confide them. 

The story of the tea-party had to be re- 


ABOUT GRANDFATHER CLEMSON. 179 

hearsed with all the enthusiasm due to so 
pleasant an occasion, Kittie coming in with 
this exclamation at what she thought was 
a proper point for a climax: 

‘‘And I was tea-potter, ’cause Mary 
wouldn’t go.” 

“I suppose I can guess what that office 
is,” said Mrs. Clemson, smiling, as she took 
the little girl on her lap; “I used to be 
more fond of pouring out tea than I am 
now. But I think you might have had 
that pleasure even if Mary had been there. 
— Why did you not go, dear?” with an in- 
quiring look into her daughter’s face. 

“ Because she got into a pet about some- 
thing — nobody knows what — and wouldn’t 
go,” said Charlie, decidedly. 

“No, I didn’t, Charlie. I can answer 
for myself; you don’t know anything at 
all about it.” 

Mary’s tone was anything but pleasant ; 
so, although her mother thought it likely 
she had reason to be grieved with her broth- 
er, she checked her before she said anything 
more in the same defiant spirit : 

“ Wait, children ; you are both impatient. 


180 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


We’ll talk this matter over at a more suitable 
time. Let me tell you now about my jour- 
ney. It was a sad one, of course, and yet I 
come home with a very thankful heart. I 
thought of you all so much, and of God’s 
mercy to us. Even this little one,” she said, 
drawing Kittie closer to her, who has lost 
father, mother and home, has reason to be 
very thankful for what she has been taught 
and believes about Jesus and heaven. Those 
I have been with seem to know nothing about 
the Friend of sinners; his words are only 
empty sounds to them ; and so they are not 
comforted by the thought of his love in 
making it possible for Willie to go to heaven. 
They speak as if he was there, but the way 
he went is all dark. I sat with Mrs. Denton 
by his coffin all the way. When we reached 

N and took the train for Fair view, she 

insisted on going into the baggage-car with 
it; and the conductor kindly arranged an 
empty one for us, so that it was comfort- 
able. Chairs were put in for Mrs. Denton, 
her father and myself, and the doors were 
opened on each side for light and ventilation. 
We could not have had a pleasanter view 


ABOUT GRANDFATHER CLEMSON. 181 

than we had. The country is green and 
smiling after our August rains, and that 
part of it through which our road lay is 
beautifully cultivated. As we rode swiftly 
along by the farms and villages I saw on 
every side the signs of busy life. Men were 
at work in the fields gathering in the har- 
vest, children at play around the doors, and 
I thought of that little one before me whose 
folded hands seemed to say that all his 
earthly work was done.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Mrs. Brainard, who had 
been an interested listener all the time, the 
true object of the child’s life is yet to be 
accomplished. God may yet use him to 
bring that afilicted mother and brother to 
himself.” 

“ I cannot but hope that he will, auntie,” 
was the reply ; God often opens hearts with 
a sorrow. Yet I thought very often during 
the day how poor and feeble our best words 
are unless God himself puts light into them. 
All I could say — which was but little — seem- 
ed to avail nothing with Mrs. Denton. A 
grave had been made for Willie in a luxu- 
riant bed of periwinkles, and so carefully had 


182 FIRST THE BLADE. 

the work been done that it looked as if the 
dark-green leaves had only been gently pulled 
aside to give him room. Just before he was 
laid there we again looked at his face. The 
sun shone full upon it, and it seemed as if 
he might open his eyes and smile on us. 
His mother bent down and said, as she 
kissed him, 

“ ‘ For the last time, my Willie — the last 
time !’ 

“ ‘ Do not say so,’ I whispered. ‘ Jesus 
asks you to meet your boy again in a world 
where death can never enter.’ 

‘‘She pressed my hand in silence; and 
last night, when we were in our quiet room 

at N , she asked me to repeat to her what 

I had said in the churchyard. I saw she 
was willing to hear whatever related to her 
sorrow.” 

A call from Mr. Griffith interrupted Mrs. 
Clemson’s story, which, sad as it was, had 
deeply interested her listeners, young and 
old. 

Their visitor could tell them a great deal 
about Mapleton. In all their lives Mary 
and Charlie had never heard so much of 


ABOUT GRANDFATHER CLEMSON. 183 

old times in the Clemson family as they did 
that night. They were particularly eager to 
hear what he had to say about that wonder- 
ful grandfather whose deeds were so praise- 
worthy, but they were not prepared for the 
fact, incidentally mentioned in Mr. Griffith’s 
story, that this good man had once been a 
distiller. 

“ When I first came to this country, about 
fifty years ago,” said Mr. Griffith, ‘‘old Squire 
Clemson had the best distillery in the coun- 
try, and there were nearly twenty of them. 
He and his two oldest boys were making 
money hand over hand as times went then. 
My brother, Alick, who was a steady-going 
young fellow, had saved his money and built 
a pretty little house for himself and laid out 
a flower-garden, but, strange to say, he had 
never married. He had always been very 
close-mouthed about his own affairs; so, when 
he took it into his head to send to the old 
country for me and my family to come and 
live with him, he told no one but the squire. 
In fact, no one else knew that he had any 
relations. 

“We had a long stormy voyage. But a few 


184 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


days before we landed poor Alick suddenly 
died. We came straight to Mapleton, but we 
were at the door of Alick’s house before we 
heard that he had been buried for a week. 
The widow of one of Alick’s comrades had 
been keeping house for him, and she was still 
in possession. She was, of course, as much 
surprised to see us as I was to find that I 
was not expected in my brother’s house. 
We had some angry words, and before long 
I was turned out of doors by the neighbors 
who came to hear what was going on. They 
all made out that Alick had given his house 
to this woman, and that nobody had ever 
heard of me. I suppose it may have been 
so, but it was hard to be treated as an im- 
postor. 

“ When the squire heard of it, he said to 
me, quietly, 

John, get another house and go peace- 
ably to work. Leave the case to me; I’ll 
see you righted, never fear.’ 

‘‘And he did. In six months I was living 
in my own home, and no thanks to anybody 
but Mr. Clemson. Many’s the case like that 
he settled for the poor. 


ABOUT GRANDFATHER CLEMSON. 185 

‘‘ But after a while the old gentleman got 
into trouble himself. You may know whose 
advice he asked when I tell you what he 
did. One day he sent for me to come into 
his private office. He was at his desk writ- 
ing when I came in, and for a few minutes 
he kept on without looking up. By and by 
he shoved back his chair and said, 

“ ‘ Well, John, have you half an hour to 
spare this evening?’ 

‘‘ I told him I had, and then he said, after 
thinking a bit, 

“ ‘ D’ye think, John, if you were put to it, 
you could find other business in Mapleton ?’ 

I was astonished. 

‘‘ ‘Aren’t you satisfied with me, squire ?’ 
says I. 

“ ‘ Oh yes,’ he said, ‘ perfectly satisfied ; 
you will do well wherever you go, John. 
But I’m not satisfied with myself, and still 
less with my business. I’ve been a distiller 
for ten years ; I never made so much money 
at anything else in my life ; but I tell you, 
John, there’s a curse on the business. I dare 
not go on. I have six sons; I want the 
blessing of God for them all more than I 


186 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


want anything else in the world, and it won’t 
come while I keep on this deadly liquor traf- 
fic. I am convinced that it is ruining more 
men in soul and body than anything else in 
the country.’ 

« < Why, squire,’ said I, ‘ you must excuse 
me, but it seems to me you are going too far 
in this matter. Your children are all doing 
well ; you have a son in the ministry, three 
others are church-members and the rest are 
as likely boys as I ever saw.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, yes !’ he said ; ‘God has been very 
merciful to me in my blindness, but my eyes 
are opened now. My wife has been praying 
for years they might be, and now I see as 
she does. John and his wife feel as we do. 
Yes, we must stop it — stop it at once and 
for ever. I’m going down to my grave 
with clean hands and no blood on my skirts. 
I want all my men to help me out in this, for 
each one has some sacrifice to make.’ 

“ I never knew how far the squire meant 
to go until the next week. One of his old 
customers came and offered to buy him out 
at his own price and carry on the business. 
But he wouldn’t hear a word to it. 


ABOUT GRANDFATHER CLEMSON. 187 

‘ No/ he said ; ‘ Mapleton shall not be 
cursed with a distillery if I can help it/ 

“ He shut up that building the next Sat- 
urday, and it has never been opened since. 
The squire and John went there after the 
men had gone, and made short work of the 
liquor. The squire said it went against his 
conscience to poison the fishes in the river ; 
so they rolled the barrels to an old well in 
the enclosure and poured the liquor down 
there till the last drop was gone. 

“ That formed the beginning of a great 
temperance movement ; seventeen distilleries 
went down in two years in that neighborhood. 
There was but one man, however, who had 
courage and principle enough to make such 
a clean sweep as the squire did. Seems to 
me Squire Clemson’s white head would rise 
up in the grave if any of his descendants 
should so far dishonor his good name as to 
drink of the intoxicating cup.’’ 

What you say is quite new and surpris- 
ing to my children,” said Mrs. Clemson. 
“They have such a horror of liquor and 
everything relating to it that I must confess 
I shrank from telling them that their own 


188 


FIBST THE BLADE. 


grandfather was a distiller. It cannot be 
said, however, that they have inherited a 
cent he gained in that business, for he lost 
it all. My husband had his own way to 
make in the world.” 

“He was none the worse for that, Mrs. 
Clemson — none the worse for that. I hear 
that in the battle of life he turned out to be 
as good a soldier as his grandfather, and 
that is praise enough for any man.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MARY’S DIFFICULTIES. 

“I do the little I can do, 

And leave the rest to Thee.” 

“ IVr other,” said Mary that night when 
they were alone together, ‘‘ I did go 
and see Mr. Denton the day after the fu- 
neral.” 

“ Why did you not say so when I asked 
you, my dear?” 

“Because I did not go with the rest; I 
went alone. We had such a troublesome 
time about the whole of it! Charlie is a 
real tease when you are not here.” 

“And how is it with his sister ?” asked 
the mother. 

“I let him alone — indeed I do; and if 
I knew he had such things to trouble him 
as I have, I wouldn’t laugh at him as he 

189 


190 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


does at me. But lie is always in such a 
frolic 

‘‘Then you had some other trouble be- 
sides Charlie's fun?” said Mrs. Clemson, in- 
quiringly. 

“You might not think it was trouble, 
but it seemed so to me. I wish so much 
that I had not gone to see Mr. Denton at 
all. And yet I wanted to do just right.” 

“ Did you ? Then you need not be anx- 
ious, Mary ; God always looks at the heart 
when he judges our work. If he saw that 
you wanted to please him first of all, he will 
take care of the rest. But you are sure you 
did want to do so ?” 

“ It seems to me you wouldn’t ask that if 
you knew just how it all was,” said Mary, in 
a grieved tone. 

“ How was it, then, dear ?” 

“ I can hardly tell how it was ; only I was 
trying to do everything just right, and every- 
thing went wrong.” 

“ With you or with somebody else, Mary?” 

“ It was with me at last, but I started 
right — I know I did. And I’m so discour- 
aged I don’t know what to do. Every little 


MAR Y^S DIFFICULTIES. 


191 


wliile all my thoughts get so mixed up that 
I feel like two or three people at once. I 
never supposed it would be so.’’ 

It was the old story again — trouble be- 
cause her eyes were turned away from Jesus, 
from whom cometh all our strength. ‘‘With- 
out me,” he says, “ ye can do nothing.” 

Mrs. Clemson had heard from her aunt 
about Bryan’s story, and so had a clue to 
Mary’s distress. 

“Tell me,” she said, tenderly, “just what 
troubles you. Perhaps 1 can understand the 
difficulty better than you suppose.” 

But Mary did not find it an easy matter 
to do this ; she was very much afraid of be- 
ing misunderstood even by this nearest and 
dearest friend of all. But, as her mother 
was quietly waiting to hear the story, she 
ventured upon it after a few moments’ hesi- 
tation, though she scarcely knew where or 
how to begin : 

“You know, mother, how the ministers 
talk about everybody’s having something to 
do — I mean something to do for Jesus. I 
have often heard that even children have 
their work. They always tell us on anni- 


192 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


versary days about different ones who have 
done so much and it all came out so well. 
Do you remember how one gentleman told 
us about a child — a little girl — who did so 
much good and was the means of her broth- 
er’s becoming a Christian ? After she died 
he took up her work and preached the gos- 
pel. I liked the story so much, because, 
just as he sat down, he said, ‘I am Eva 
Steadman’s brother, led to Jesus by a little 
girl like one of you.’ That was her name, 
and there, right before our eyes, was what 
she did. Wasn’t it good? I thought, ‘Oh, 
if / could do so!”’ 

“ I remember it now,” said Mrs. Clemson ; 
“ it was very interesting. I believe it is true 
that children have their part to do in bring- 
ing the world to Jesus, but it is all-import- 
ant that we should have a right motive in 
this work. What is yours?” 

“To speak for Jesus. What else could 
it be, mother deg;r?” 

“ You might have many others even with- 
out knowing it. We are often blind to what 
is in our own hearts.” 

“But I didn’t think I was good — I am 


MARY'S DIFFICULTIES. 


193 


sure I’m not — but I wanted Mr. Denton to 
know what Jesus could do for him, and I 
tried to tell him. After I began to speak 
it wasn’t hard till I found he didn’t care 
about what I said, and even then I went on ; 
for it all seemed so plain to me that Jesus 
could save him if he only believed it. But 
he never asked me to come again or sent for 
me when the children stayed to tea, and it 
seems that all I said was worse than nothing. 
And yesterday, when I went to see him again, 
he teased me all day.” 

Mary leaned her head on her mother’s 
shoulder to hide her tears. 

Dear child, are you not willing to bear 
a cross for Jesus?” 

“Why, yes,” sobbed Mary; “that was 
just what I was trying to do.” 

“ The effort to speak to Mr. Denton was 
only a part of the cross ; his contempt and 
his indifference were laid upon you for 
Christ’s sake too. Bear them as he bore 
scorn and reproach for you.” 

This was silencing for a while, for the 
truth went home: Mary had indeed put 
aside the very cross Jesus had borne for 

13 


194 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


her. Still, willing to justify herself, she 
said, 

“I don^t see how I could help being 
grieved about Mr. Denton.” 

Nor I ; it is very natural to feel the loss 
of so pleasant a friendship. But if you did 
right to speak to him, Jesus will take care 
of all the rest. But you may have imagined 
a slight which was never intended ; you are 
always over-sensitive about the approbation 
of others.” 

Not this time ; I know he meant it.” 

It is likely that Mr. Denton shrinks 
from the truth,” said Mrs. Clemson. ‘‘He 
cannot be at rest after such a warning as he 
has had in Willie’s death. You must take 
him to God in prayer, my child : ‘ Prayer 
moves the Arm that moves the world.’ ” 
You will not need to wait till you get to 
heaven for part of your reward, even though 
you should never know of Mr. Denton’s con- 
version.” 

“ Why, mother,” said Mary, smiling a lit- 
tle through her tears, “ you talk so strong ! 
Just as if you knew 

“I do know. I believe God’s promise 


MARY^S DIFFICULTIES. 


195 


that ‘ they that wait on the Lord shall re- 
new their strength/ That added strength 
is a reward we gain every time we put faith 
in Jesus. Is not that cheering?’’ 

“I think it is/’ answered Mary, taking 
heart again. 

“And even when we have so far forgotten 
life’s true end as to desire to work for Jesus 
that we may win glory for ourselves, faith in 
his cleansing blood will cure this sin in our 
hearts. You have been seeking for success, 
and have been disappointed in your particu- 
lar object ; but God was showing you in it 
the^ selfishness of your heart and would lead 
you to a higher and holier aim than you have 
had. In his own way and time, though per- 
haps not in your sight, he will attend to the 
seed 3^ou have been sowing. Trust him as 
Eva Steadman did. She never saw her suc- 
cess on earth, but it may be that she looks 
upon it from the heavenly hills.” 

“ Isn’t it strange that I never thought of 
that ? I am always forgetting what I ought 
to remember.” 

“ Do not be discouraged,” said her moth- 
er, cheerily. “ There is a memory that will 


196 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


hold all the precious truth we need, and 
Jesus gives it to every seeking heart. Re- 
member your text,’’ pointing to where it 
was pinned to her mirror : 

HE SHALL TEACH YOU ALL THINGS 
AND 

BRING ALL THINGS TO YOUR REMEMBRANCE, 

WHATSOEVER I HAVE SAID UNTO YOU. 

• 

Summer days were numbered, though sum- 
mer weather lingered a while after the early 
frosts of September. The gay crowds which 
had been flowing into the hotel from every 
part of the land during the heat of the sea- 
son were now ebbing away. The long halls 
looked quite empty and desolate, and even 
the music had in it a strain of sadness as it 
sounded through the deserted rooms. 

The Dentons too were flitting. Immediate 
change of air and scene had been recom- 
mended to Mrs. Denton, for herself as well 
as for her invalid son, and they were hasten- 
ing away rather earlier than the rest of the 
visitors, in hope of getting relief for mind 


MARY^S DIFFICULTIES. 


197 


and body. But Mrs. Clemson, who had spent 
much time with the lonely mother, could 
see that hers was a wound which no earthly 
balm could heal, and it had been her daily 
prayer that in some way she might be able 
to reach this stricken heart with the conso- 
lations of the gospel. The Spirit of God 
had so opened the Bible to her own un- 
derstanding that it seemed at times that 
she could not fail to bring her friend to see 
the truth as plainly as she herself saw it. 

But, earnest as she was in sowing the seed, 
the fruit did not appear. More than once 
was she reminded of her own words to Mary: 

Leave results humbly and quietly with 
God.” This she was enabled to do; for 
when the day of parting came, she bade 
Mrs. Denton good-bye with one of God^s 
sweetest promises singing like a bird in her 
heart : “ Whatsoever ye shall ask in my 
name, that will I do.” Even though she 
might never again speak to her bereaved 
and unbelieving friend, yet she could follow 
her as closely as ever in the Heaven-ap- 
pointed path of prayer. 

Often, in the few days intervening between 


198 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Willie’s funeral and the breaking up of this 
seashore home, Mary had heard her mother 
allude to this deep desire for the conversion 
of this family. 

One night, just before the Dentons left the 
shore, she was aroused by some noisy footsteps 
in the hall. She started up, thinking for a 
moment that it was morning and she must 
have overslept herself, as one might very 
easily do in the delightful sea-air. Then she 
remembered that there was to be a hop in 
one of the hotels near by, and that about the 
time she went to bed some of their neighbors 
on that floor were preparing to go. 

‘‘They must be back again,” she thought, 
“and have to run to one another’s rooms to 
talk over everything before they can go to 
sleep.” 

Sho was again turning over to her own 
pillow for another long sweet sleep, when 
she found that her mother’s usual place at 
her side was vacant. Again starting up to 
look and to listen, she saw in the moonlight 
that streamed through the open window a 
white figure kneeling in a dim corner of the 
room. She could understand it all now, for 


MARY^S DIFFICULTIES. 


199 


the few low words which reached her ear, 
though broken by deep emotion, told for 
whom her mother had risen to plead with 
God. Nothing that Mary had heard her say 
about her love to God and his work and her 
faith in his word could make such a deep 
impression on the child’s mind as did this 
scene so unintentionally brought before her. 
But it was much deepened when she saw 
how patiently her mother gave up her will 
to God and let Mrs. Denton go away with- 
out seeing an answer to her prayer. So 
much is example better than precept in 
training young hearts to walk by faith. 

The lesson was timely. Mary had a trial 
before her. In his usual easy, good-natured 
way, young Denton had, after a little assumed 
indifference, drawn her back into her old 
friendship for him, and she had made more 
than one pleasant visit with the other chil- 
dren before the little circle around his inva- 
lid-chair was scattered far and wide. He 
seemed entirely to have forgotten that any 
coldness had arisen between them, until the 
evening before he left, when they were bid- 
ding him “ Good-night.” 


200 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“All of you little folks must come over in 
the morning and see me off/^ he said, “ unless 
you mean to get blue over the last hand- 
shaking ; in which case I would rather you 
should stay away. D’ye hear?” 

All but Mary had reached the door ; she 
had lingered a little behind the rest to put 
in better order for her walk home through 
the breezy night-air some prints Mr. Denton 
had just given her. 

“As for you, my little saint,” he said, giv- 
ing her arm a pinch which made, her look 
up and catch in his eye all of the mischiev- 
ous twinkle which went with his words, “ do 
you mean to let me off without a sermon, or 
do you not? You see I am as hardened as 
ever.” 

A chill came to Mary’s heart; with a 
pained, startled look, she drew back from 
him and turned to the door. 

“Do not go looking that way,” he ex- 
claimed, trying to detain her ; “ I was only 
jesting.” 

But she would not give him the hand after 
which he reached, nor would she let him see 
the face so crimson with indignation. 


MARY^S DIFFICULTIES. 


201 


‘‘So you will not forgive me?” he said, 
laughingly. “ You ought to : it’s a part of 
the plan. I have read up on the subject, 
you see.” 

He thought she had gone, for his last 
words scarcely reached her ; but after a few 
moments’ hesitation in the hall she came 
back flushed still, and too much excited to 
make any other reply than to offer her hand 
in token of reconciliation. Why should she 
be angry with his treatment of herself, when 
she knew that all his unkindness was aimed 
at her Master ? It was only because she was 
his disciple that he spoke to her as he did. 
She was too timid to reply, but she took his 
hand with pity for his blindness, and with 
an unspoken prayer which gave to her 
“ Good-night ” a tenderness that went to the 
young man’s heart. But her motives were 
misunderstood ; they were entirely beyond 
all the wisdom which satisfied Harry Den- 
ton. He thought of her only as a sensitive 
child who was learning to control and hide 
her feelings with Spartan bravery, and whose 
native good sense and dignity would, under 
proper management, some day make a fine 


202 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


woman of her. He took her offered hand 
with true respect and a word of apology for 
the pain he had caused her, though, as he 
went on in his light and careless way to 
speak of the difference in their feelings as 
a matter of very little consequence, she was 
more sure than ever that his heart was un- 
touched by the truth. 

‘‘You must take Bryan home with you, 
Miss Mary,” he added, in a softened tone. 
“The others seem to have gone on without 
you, and the streets are noisy to-night.” 

Bryan was only too glad to leave the 
trunks he was packing ; so the two walked 
on together, very silently at first, for Mary 
was thinking over what Mr. Denton had 
said and what she had left unsaid, and 
wishing, as she was so apt to do, that her 
after-thoughts could come first, especially 
in such times as these. 

“ I am glad I went back, though I could 
not answer him,” she exclaimed, thinking 
aloud, in forgetfulness that it was Bryan, 
and not “ mother,” who was her companion. 

“What did you say, miss?” asked that 
worthy, coming nearer to catch her words. 


MARY’S DIFFICULTIES. 


203 


“ I was only thinking, Bryan, and uttered 
my thoughts ; but then you know how it is. 
I was so sorry just now ! I spoke to Mr. 
Denton once because he laughed at Chris- 
tians. He does not care or think anything 
about such things ; and when I try to answer 
him, I feel so confused and shut up that I 
don’t get out the best words or do the best 
way at all.” 

Bryan looked down from his six feet of 
height with a beaming smile of sympathy : 

“ Well, miss, you see, I’m one of the shut- 
up kind too. I gets put into a corner quite 
frequent, but it’s the best place to talk to the 
Lord Jesus, after all. I tell him about this 
young man and his heathenish talk, and I 
puts the case to him strong. ‘ Here he is,’ I 
says, ‘ blind, lame, sick, dyin’. Lord, heal 
him ! The power is with thee.” 

Do you think he will ever be a Chris- 
tian, Bryan ?” asked Mary, anxiously. 

“ I can’t think the Lord has put such a 
desire as this in my heart for nothing, miss. 
He doesn’t deny himself, you see. It’s only 
for us to follow on when he lights up the 
promises for us. And then, when I see you 


204 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


too a-bringin’ this sick man to the Lord, I 
cannot but believe our prayers will be an- 
swered in his own time. There’s a promise 
left for the ‘ two that are agreed,’ you 
know.” 

They had reached the door of the hotel, 
and it was time to say “ Good-night.” 

Bryan,” said Mary, lingering a moment 
before she went in, ‘‘ I wish you would write 
to me if Mr. Denton ever becomes a Chris- 
tian. Can’t you ?” 

“ Indeed I will — that is, if it’s the Lord’s 
plan to let us know it here. He chooses 
sometimes to keep such news till we get 
home, and we may have this saved up for 
us to talk over when we sit down in the 
kingdom of heaven with Abraham and 
Isaac and Jacob.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

FAREWELLS. 

“ Blest be the dear uniting love 
’ That will not let us part I” 

T he little party whose sayings and doings 
have made our story were about to part 
for widely-separated homes. Mrs. Brainard 
and her orphan grandchildren were going 
across the sea. The mother of George and 
Kittie had been born in England, and it was 
her wish that her little ones should be taken 
there to be educated ; but they had been so 
constantly under Mrs. Brainard’s care, and 
had so entwined themselves around her heart, 
that when the time came for separation she 
resolved to go with them herself to see them 
comfortably settled in their new home, if, 
indeed, she did not remain there perma- 
nently. So it might be months, and possi- 
bly years, before she would again meet her 

205 


206 


FIRST THE BLADE: 


dear friends in America. Her last days 
with Mrs. Clemson were very precious, for 
their long-tried friendship was 

“A fellowship of kindred hearts, 

And like to that above.” 

The children were making great plans for 
letter- writing ; and if they had all been car- 
ried out, but little else could have been done. 

“ Mother, you won’t have any more trou- 
ble now with Charlie about writing,” said 
Mary as they were all strolling together on 
the beach one evening. “ He has concluded, 
however, not to write that History of the 
Worldr 

‘‘ Has he ? — How is that, Charlie ? Was 
not the subject large enough ?” 

“ Oh yes, mother ; I could have managed 
that easy enough,” said Charlie, not seeing 
any place where a laugh could come in ; 
‘‘but, you see, George and I have agreed 
to get off a letter to each other every day, 
and there wouldn’t be much time to write 
the other thing, would there?” 

“I should think not,” she answered. 

“ You are glad that we are going to write 


FAREWELLS. 


207 


such nice long letters to each other, aren’t 
you, mother? Mary is going to write too, 
and we’ll all have one another’s histories.” 

The mother looked happy enough, if that 
was all. Who would not be happy, with 
such a treasure of a boy as Charlie, all 
aglow with health and alive with love and 
fun ? But no one could have the guidance 
of such a bright young life as his without 
care for his future development, and she was 
thinking as she walked along whether she 
should dampen the children’s ardor by ex- 
pressing her opinion of their plan, or leave 
them to find out for themselves that a daily 
correspondence was more than they could 
attend to. 

‘‘ Of course I am glad to have you write 
to Georgie,” she said, ‘‘ but I am thinking 
about the every-day plan. Your school-days 
are full enough for a youngster who wants 
as much out-of-door life as you do. You had 
both better reconsider the matter and make 
a promise you can expect to stand by.” 

“ So I think,” said Mrs. Brainard. ‘‘ Start 
as you can hold out, boys. Think before you 
make a promise, and then keep your word. 


208 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


You will never be men who can be depend- 
ed on if you do not learn this lesson while 
you are young.” 

Whatever reconsideration the matter re- 
quired was finished up in that walk, for upon 
coming back to the hotel Mrs. Brainard found 
letters which hastened her departure sev- 
eral days sooner than she had at first in- 
tended, and the packing, which the children 
looked forward to as an occasion of great 
interest, was done at last in very short order. 
So rapidly was it done, indeed, that while the 
little folks had gone out for a race on the 
beach the next morning Mrs. Brainard and 
her niece had emptied drawers and closets of 
their contents, and had two trunks packed 
already, and another so full that Mary could 
not see how anybody could expect to crowd 
anything more into it. 

“ You’ll see, my dear,” said Mrs Brainard. 
‘‘Appearances are often deceptive. Hand 
over that pile of things on the chair behind 
you, if you please, and then trot out into the 
hall and see what you can do with the rest 
of the children. They would like to run 
riot in this wilderness of drygoods.” 


FAREWELLS. 


209 


But Kittie, coining in at another door at 
this precise moment, caught sight of what 
was going on and gave the alarm, and the 
sentinel gave way in the rush that followed. 

“ Six people make a crowd in these small 
quarters,’’ cried Mrs. Clemson, in dismay, as 
she felt herself surrounded. ‘‘Somebody 
will have to leave the room, that’s certain, 
or — ” 

“ It needn’t be me !” The voice sounded 
from the depths of a trunk, where Kittie’s 
curly head was found by the committee of 
three which started instantly on the search 
for it. “ I can live here and watch grandma 
pack. ’Twill be such fun !” and the sweet 
bird-voice suddenly came with a muffled 
sound from under the lid that George had 
dextrously shut down. 

“ Will the time ever come when boys will 
not be boys?” exclaimed Mrs. Brainard as 
she came to the rescue. — “ Come out, little 
puss and take yourself off with all the rest.” 

“But I have packing to do, grandma; 
’course I have. There’s all my dollies.” 

“ Miss Angelina and her entire wardrobe 
are already safely boxed, Kittie.” 

14 


210 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Now, Miss Angelina was a beautiful young 
lady that Grandma Fortesque had sent over 
from England and was expecting back in 
good order when Angelina’s little mistress 
should go to that wonderful country. She 
had been brought out on festive occasions 
only; and when grown people had wound 
her up and put her in a proper attitude, she 
always bowed and said Good-morning ” in 
the most stately and respectful manner. 

‘‘Miss Angelina,” said Mr. Adair, when 
he was first introduced to her, “is a beauty, 
a curiosity, an example and an exponent of 
fashion ; but she does not win the heart.” 

Kittie eyed him as he made this large- 
worded speech, and, though she could not 
do more than guess at the meaning of half 
he said, she felt that he must have spoken 
her mind exactly, and henceforth gave up 
the case of Miss Angelina to the grown folks 
and turned her heart’s best love to Jemima, 
that battered old darling that Nurse Bennet 
bought for her so long ago, and to Mary 
Anna Jones^ that dearest and raggedest of 
all worn-out doll-babies. 

“Oh, grandma,” cried Kittie, in genuine 


FAREWELLS. 


211 


alarm, as she went to search for her treas- 
ures, “you would have forgotten these if 
I hadn’t just come in time;” and she held 
out an armful of dolls forlorn and tumbled 
enough to show anybody who studied the 
ways of little girls that these poor creatures 
had borne with all the hugging, kissing and 
nursing of their little mistress, not to speak 
of the discipline she thought they required 
at times; and so, of course, they deserved 
all the love she heaped upon them. 

“ Why, Kittie,” said her grandmother, 
with a very dubious look, “am I expected 
to find room for all those ?” 

“ Such rubbish !” cried George, who always 
had time to superintend Kittie’s movements. 
“ I should say those were played out and had 
better go to the rag-man.” 

But Kittie heeded not such slurs : 

“ Please let them go ;” and she kissed a 
poor snub nose so tenderly that grandma 
held out her arms and drew both the dol- 
lies and their mistress where she too could 
kiss. 

“ You can leave them to me, little one,” 
said she; “they shall certainly go.” 


212 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“Have you lots of room?” asked Kittle, 
suddenly struck by the difference between 
her humble friends and their surroundings, 
yet anxious to have them go. 

“I can squeeze them in, dear; they are 
used to squeezing.” 

“ Oh, you dearest, bestest grandma ! Tm 
so glad ! I’ll kiss you over and over and 
over,” suiting the action to the word and 
leaving grandma a little ruffled in conse- 
quence, as Kittie ran away with a fresh im- 
pulse of trust in her little heart where so 
many had been given before — trust that in 
all her little life had never been betrayed 
by an untruthful word or tone from those 
to whom she looked for guidance. Happy 
child, leaning so safely and so surely on 
human love, and so better prepared by life’s 
sweetest training to say in answer to the 
voice of eternal truth, 

“ My little all I here suspend 
Where the whole weight of heaven is hung.” 


But the time for farewells came at last — 
first to the sea-side walks where they had 
spent so much time together — such happy 


FAREWELLS. 


213 


days ! — and then to one another in the cabin 
of the great ocean-steamer in which Mrs. 
Brainard had taken passage. 

All was bustle and excitement there. 
Friends were coming and going with greet- 
ings and good-byes, parting gifts and part- 
ing directions and parting smiles and tears. 
A beautiful basket of flowers arrived for 
Mrs. Brainard, gathered by friendly hands 
in the garden of the old home, and tears 
came with its fragrant memories of departed 
days. Kittie found some little children cry- 
ing in a corner over a dear papa who was 
going away, and she came back, sobbing 
with excitement, to find more cloudy faces 
where she had left sunshine. 

‘‘ Oh, grandma,” she cried, there’s such 
a many people good-byeing here! Sha’n’t 
we go back to the land again, away from 
the great sea? Fm afraid.” 

“ Darling,” said Mrs. Clemson as she lifted 
the child to her lap, “ we are saying ‘ Good- 
bye ’ for only a little while. Grandma and 
I are very glad to think how pleasant it will 
be to meet again ;” and the smile that came 
with the words shone out from a heart to 


214 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


which God’s promises were a living, joyous 
reality. 

‘‘ Yes,” said Mrs. Brainard, ‘‘ some time 
and somewhere in our Father’s house we 
shall meet again. It may be here or yon- 
der, but we have one love and one life and 
one eternal hope.” 

And so they parted. 

The great ship loosed from her moorings 
and steamed majestically down through the 
flitting crowd of smaller vessels in New York 
Harbor, the sound of a gun booming over 
the waves as she glided off toward the Nar- 
rows ; while Mrs. Clemson and the children 
once more turned toward dear old Mapleton. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


HOME AGAIN. 

“ She doeth little kindnesses 

Which most leave undone or despise ; 

For naught that sets one heart at ease, 

And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemfed in her eyes.” 

“ T DO not think your faces were any 
-L brighter the morning we went away 
than they are to-night over this home- 
coming,” said Mrs. Clemson to her chil- 
dren as the long train of cars drew near 
to Mapleton station. 

Mary and Charlie had pressed to the 
car-windows to catch the first glimpses of 
familiar objects as they came in sight — the 
vane on the church -spire glittering in the 
sunset, just seen in the distance over the 
shoulder of Academy Hill, the old mill 
down by the bridge among its overshad- 
owing elms, and, beyond, the white houses 
that lined the long village street. 

. 216 


216 


FIBST THE BLADE. 


Charlie had too much to look at to heed 
his mother’s remark, but Mary turned and 
gave to the hand she was holding a very lov- 
ing pressure which made her words mean a 
little more than they would have done with- 
out it. 

‘‘ I am glad, mother — -just as glad as I can 
be — to get home.” 

‘‘After all?” 

“ Yes, ma’am, after all and she blushed 
a little as she remembered what she had said 
about the quiet, earnest life to which she was 
returning, and how she once fretted over the 
work she had in prospect at home and in 
the school-room. 

“I thought so,” said Mrs. Clemson. 

Mary had a tell-tale face, and for some 
time her mother had been trying to read it. 
Not that it was unusual for her to look happy 
and chatter away about everything she saw, 
as she had been doing, but now there was 
in her manner an enthusiasm which could 
not be entirely explained by her joy at once 
more seeing old scenes and old faces. There 
was something on her mind which might 
find words at any moment, but which did 


HOME AGAIN. 


217 


not, after all, though her mother seemed to 
think so, for she asked, 

“What did you say, dear?’’ 

“ I didn’t say anything, mother ; I was 
only thinking and she laughed as she re- 
turned the inquiring gaze bent upon her. 
“People often ask me such questions.” 
“What kind of questions?” 

“As though I had been talking when I 
have not said a word.” 

Mrs. Clemson laughed too at that, adding, 
“ I hardly wonder at that. Your thoughts 
sometimes make a great display of them- 
selves on the surface without asking much 
help from your tongue.” 

“ I know I might as well tell you of what 
I am thinking, because you will guess ; you 
always do. But it doesn’t seem to be the 
right time now. We are almost there, for 
there’s Mr. Sanders’s place, and — ” 

A hand w’^as laid quietly on her shoulder, 
and she turned to see her dear old pastor’s 
benignant face looking down at her. 

“ Dr. Anson !” cried she, giving him both 
hands by way of telling him what else she 
had to say of her joy at seeing him. 


218 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“ You are welcome home, my dears, both 
of you — all of you,’’ reaching over to the 
seat where Charlie sat ; “ I shall be glad 
enough to see you filling that empty seat 
in church next Sunday. — I miss the children, 
Mrs. Clemson, as much as I do their elders. 
But here are more people to say ‘ How d’ye 
do ?’ I’ll stand aside and give them a 
chance.” 

The Clemsons received a warm welcome 
home. Everybody knew everybody else in 
Mapleton, especially in Dr. Anson’s church 
where the Master had found some hearts 
and hands which so truly represented his that 
they seemed to attract others as he would 
had he been there in his seamless robe as of 
old, and very much the same kind of peo- 
ple. 

One of these needy ones, after whom Chris- 
tian love and faith had thus reached, drawing 
him into the fold, was Ben Maclean, a poor old 
stage-driver, once a castaway in the eyes of the 
world, and so needing more patience than any 
one could spare unless he had a stock of that 
charity which ‘‘suffereth long.” Ben had 
met with many failures in business, among 


HOME AGAIN. 


219 


other things, and even since he had forsaken 
the dram-shop and tried to take care of him- 
self and his feeble wife he had been unable 
to shake off some of his thriftless habits. 
Some kind friend, “ hoping all things ” of 
him, had been setting him on his feet again 
whilst Mrs. Clemson had been away, and he 
stood there that evening by the station plat- 
form, as happy as he was sixty years before 
with his first new top, though the broken- 
down old carryall and dejected horse to which 
he called the attention of passengers looked 
as though they had been making a tour of 
the world and could not be expected much 
longer to weather life’s struggles. He saw 
Mrs. Clemson as she alighted from the car, 
and tapped with his whip on the planks to 
attract her notice. 

See, mother !” cried Charlie, pulling her 
sleeve as they passed ; ‘‘ here is Ben with a 
new — I mean another — horse !” 

Ben had begun to smile long before this. 
Mrs. Clemson was one of his chief favorites, 
and before he caught her eye the lines of 
his face had time to assume a truly open ex- 
pression ; but he said nothing until she spoke, 


220 


FIRST THE BLADE, 


and then he was so much embarrassed be- 
tween his joy at seeing her and the thought 
of how she would be affected at the sight of 
his establishment that his words, considered 
merely as an answer to her question, fell 
quite wide of the mark. 

Good-evening, Ben ! How are you 

‘‘ Yeshn ; I^m at it agin, you see. ’Tain’t 
much, though,” he added, meekly, smooth- 
ing down the ancient curtains in a vain 
attempt to stop a gap which they had grown 
too short to cover ; and they appeared more 
tattered and worn than ever in his eyes now 
that Mrs. Clemson stood by to see. Will 
you git in, m’am ? It’ll go.” 

“Will it, Ben?” she asked, a dubious 
smile stealing out of the corners of her 
mouth. 

The omnibus came dashing up just then 
with a gay pair of horses, making Ben’s 
wagon and team seem all the worse. 

“ Out of the way there, Ben !” shouted 
the driver. “This is no place for scare- 
crows.” 

“ I’d sell out, Ben, before I moved any, 
if I were you,” said another; “you might 


HOME AGAIN. 


221 


get seventy-five cents for the horse if you 
throw in the wagon.’’ 

Ben bore the raillery very good-natured- 
ly, and drew off from the contested ground, 
still keeping his eye on Mrs. Clemson with 
hope beaming in every feature. 

‘‘Don’t go too far away, Ben,” said the 
lady ; “ I’ll ride with you. But I think you 
will have to make two trips with us, for we 
have baggage.” 

“Yes’m; all right! I’ll just come over, 
so that you kin git in.” 

In a moment Ben was again a man among 
men, and brought up his shaky horse and 
his more shaky carriage with great steadi- 
ness of purpose, backing up and wheeling 
round to give Mrs. Clemson the best possi- 
ble advantage for climbing in. To crown 
his triumph, Dr. Anson came up in time to 
see him move off carefully with his precious 
load, and trot away trying to bear life’s suc- 
cesses with suitable humility. 

“ ‘ Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one 
of the least of these my brethren, ye have 
done it unto me,’ ” said the old pastor, walk- 
ing home that evening under the maples. 


222 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“ How many cups of cold water Ben does re- 
quire ! and if there is any one in the church 
who can find out when he needs one, it is 
Mrs. Clemson.’’ 

Ben had the road all to himself, for the 
carriages in waiting at the station all went 
by in a cloud of dust before he was fairly 
under way. Charlie looked longingly after 
them from his seat by Ben, for, like all boys, 
he preferred to ride behind a horse that had 
some spirit, particularly when there were 
other boys to look on, as there happened to 
be in this case. But he knew what his 
mother meant by choosing to ride with Ben, 
and his own kind heart had been touched, as 
hers had been, by the ridicule the poor old 
man had so patiently borne. He felt, as 
any noble nature might feel, for the weak 
and the defenceless ; but his mother thought 
of Jesus and of what he had done for the poor 
despised on-e who believed on him, and how 
he had been left among Christ’s brethren to 
receive his words and feel his Spirit through 
them. 

Ben too understood it all in his rude, vague 
way ; the Lord Jesus had spoken to his heart 


HOME AGAIN. 


223 


through Mrs. Clemson many times before 
that evening. 

‘‘I kinder thought you’d ride with me, 
Mis’ Clemson, though ’tain’t much I have, 
but — ” 

The old man reflectively rubbed his chin, 
for his remaining thoughts were too much 
for speech. 

“ You wish you had a better team.” 

Charlie broke in with his thoughts, that 
would run on horses while looking at the 
poor animal before him. 

“ Yes, I do — not so much for myself, but 
it’s for her, you see,” pointing over his shoul- 
der to Mrs. Clemson. I kin git along ’most 
any way.” 

I take the will for the deed, Ben,” said 
Mrs. Clemson, cheerily. “I am very glad 
of this opportunity to ask how you are get- 
ting along and where you are staying now.” 

‘‘Up the river-road, at Steve Grier’s. I 
passes your house every day now and he 
turned to look at the effect his news pro- 
duced on his hearers — or hearer, for Ben 
never seemed aware of the existence of the 
children while their mother was present. 


224 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Mrs. Clemson was suitably impressed, 
though her surprise arose from the fact that 
in making the round of tenement-houses in 
Mapleton he had lived but two months in- 
stead of the three he usually spent in one 
habitation. 

“Ah she said ; “ you have got back 
there again for he had lived there twice 
before. “I am glad, for I can look after 
you a little this winter.” 

“And I can read to you so often, Ben,” 
said Mary. “It’s just the thing.” 

“ Why, I was a-thinkin’ of that only 
last night,” said Ben. “ There’s Somebody,” 
pointing solemnly upward as he spoke, “as 
knows what I wants.” 

“Ben, it is Mary who means to read to 
you. She will be glad to do some such work 
in Christ’s stead.” 

“ Yes’m. It’s all the same to me, so as I 
hear what he says, and do, ma’am. That 
doin' is what fetches me.” 

“You must come and see us, Ben, when 
we are settled again. Mary shall read to 
you what it is the Lord expects of poor 
sinners — 


HOME AGAIN. 


225 


“ ‘ How he makes the burden light, 

Or doth the burden bear/ 

He is very pitiful, you know/’ 

“Yes’m. If it waVt fur that — ” Ben 
turned his head, but could not hide the 
trembling in his voice. But,” he con- 
tinued, ‘‘ he always sends some of his folks 
to me.” 

He always will,” said Mrs. Clemson ; 
‘‘ only trust him ? Do you remember how, 
when Elijah went so far into the wilderness, 
the Lord sent ravens to feed him?” 

‘‘ Yes’m.” The old man was smiling now. 
‘‘ ‘ Haven ’ ! That’s my horse’s name. He’s 
fetched me bread already. There’s different 
ways, you see. Sometimes angels bring it 
direct. So I says to Clarie this morning.” 
Clarie was his wife. “But there’s your 
home, ma’am, stan’in’ jest as you left it. 
You’ll be thankfully received.” 

One would think so, if he saw no more 
than poor Fido’s welcome. The little dog 
came racing down the road to meet them 
with so many frantic expressions of his 
joy around old Haven’s head and feet that 
it was thought best to bring that animal to 

15 


226 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


a dead halt in order to let Charlie out or 
Fido in. To do one or the other was only 
a measure of safety. 

Charlie got out and ran up the hill, as 
boys generally do under such joyous cir- 
cumstances, taking the whole width of the 
road for his frolic with Fido, while the 
Grant boys, who had given up the travelers 
for that night and had gone home, hearing 
the din, concluded that Charlie had come, 
after all, and rushed with a “ Hurrah 
across the orchard. 

Mary was taking things a little more 
quietly, as Charlie made noise enough for 
both. But it was a happy time, and Ben 
was very thankful for his share in bringing 
it all about. 

How the flowers had grown and blossomed 
out since they left ! A bank of salvias, with 
here and there a geranium to brighten its 
green for July and August, was blazing now 
with all its scarlet splendors. The verbenas 
and the phloxes, were aglow with bloom, and 
asters, pink and purple and white, were lift- 
ing up their full round faces as though they 
waited for a kiss. 


HOME AGAIN. 


227 


‘‘Oh, you beauty!’’ said Mary, dropping 
her satchel and stooping to one that stood 
like a fair bouquet among its fellows. “ You 
are smiling all over at me. — See, mother! 
If this little pet should put on any more 
white, you couldn’t see the green at all.” 

Mrs. Clemson, too, was delighted, and so 
was Fido, and so was everybody. 

“ Charlie, you will have to hold this dog 
or I cannot get into the house. He seems 
wild with joy.” 

So they all trooped in together and shut 
the door, as happy and as contented a fam- 
ily as ever nestled down on the river-bank 
at Mapleton — or anywhere else. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


TRYING DAYS. 

“Coming as at first I came, 

To take, and not bestow on Thee.” 

T his is a busy world when we are on the 
watch for duties. It seemed so when 
Mary again came back into the old ways. 
There was much to do, in the schoolroom 
and out of it. New studies were to be 
taken up with different motives, and the 
old ones with fresh vigor; while the little 
round of duty and self-denial at home, con- 
tentedly as she had gone through it before, 
seemed far more worth the doing now, since 
it had been made plain to her that the work 
she had asked from Jesus might be there. 
So days went on before Mary had time to 
look back on the plans of which she had 
spoken to her mother when on the cars. 
Coming home from school one afternoon, 
228 


TRYING DAYS. 


229 


slie found her mother preparing for a walk. 
Bonnet and shawl were already on, and she 
was on the piazza tying up a bunch of au- 
tumn flowers while she waited for her daugh- 
ter. 

“ Oh how pretty said Mary, coming up 
the walk. “That will please somebody. 
Who is it for, mother 

“ Clarie Maclean,” was the reply ; “ it is 
high time we went up to look after her and 
her poor old Ben. I have not seen him pass 
for several days. Have you ?” 

“ I am afraid he is sick,” said Mary. 
“Fannie Grant told me yesterday that he 
had been hurt in the stable and the doctor 
had been called. I forgot to speak of it.” 

“ It is strange you did not tell me of this,” 
said her mother. “However, we will go 
now, and you may carry part of my load. 
I have a satchel besides my flowers.” 

“I donT know which is most like you,” 
said Mary, laughing, as she ran in with her 
books ; “ so you will have to choose which I 
shall carry — though, so far as Ben is con- 
cerned, he won’t look at either unless you 
hand it to him.” 


230 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


Mrs. Clemson smiled : 

He has not many ideas, poor Ben ! His 
field of knowledge will widen out very soon. 
He must be nearly fourscore years old.’’ 

They were out in the road by this time, 
under the shadow of the row of maple trees 
which lined the way even when it left houses 
and gardens behind for a while to climb a 
rocky hill which overhung the river. A 
dense, dark growth of cedars still held pos- 
session to the right and left as ancient ten- 
ants of the soil, and were only waiting till 
the maples, yellowing now so fast, should lose 
their transient glory and leave them alone to 
brighten the winter days. It was a place 
where blackberry-vines were much at home, 
and earlier in the year their snowy blossoms 
trailed over the rocks with promises of fruit 
which the children of the neighborhood al- 
ways counted on and never failed to find. 

Mary loved the place for its wild flowers. 
It was so stony and undesirable a spot for 
cultivation that thus far it had been passed 
by in the march of improvement around 
Mapleton. The mossy ledges were gay with 
columbines in spring, not to speak of a host 


TRYING DAYS. 


231 


of more delicate blossoms. Violets nestled 
in the shady places, as violets will even when 
they put themselves out of the way to do it, 
and later in the summer the blue-fringed 
gentians held a long festival by themselves 
among the rocks. Their cheery smiles might 
have claimed the sole attention of their 
young admirer had she not ventured one 
day with Charlie far below their seat to 
the river-bank, and there found a colony 
of scarlet lobelias in full feather holding 
court around a shady spring. Many a walk 
had ended down there since that day. 

Charlie, under his mother’s direction, had 
carried away some of the proud beauties, and 
had set them down in her garden with so 
little disturbance to their roots that they 
never knew that they had been moved — at 
least, they showed no sign of displeasure at 
the change, as wild flowers are apt to do. 
But they never looked just so beautiful as 
they did among the ferns by Cardinal 
Spring. 

“Haven’t we time to go down to the 
river ?” asked Mary as they reached Look- 
out Point and stood gazing down through 


232 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


the cedars at the lowlands. “ It is so long 
since we were there.” 

‘‘We can stay only a little while if we 
do,” replied Mrs. Clemson, turning aside from 
the carriage-road with the words. “We must 
give some time to Ben, and I would like to 
stop in to see the Evanses before we come 
back.” 

“I meant to speak to you about going 
there,” said Mary ; “ I had a plan, you re- 
member, when I was in the cars coming 
home. Part of it was about Willie Evans. 
Couldn’t I teach him to read ? His father 
will never spare him to go away where he 
might learn, and he seems to think that 
Willie will never be anything but a little 
blind boy to be taken care of and spoiled.” 

“ Yes ; I think your plan is a good one,” 
said Mrs. Clemson. “ He has so much idle 
time that could be spent in reading if he 
only knew how, poor child ! Those long 
winter evenings his mother spends knitting 
in the dark to save candles would be so 
much more to them all if Willie’s fingers 
could give them the Bible stories he so 
delights to hear.” 


TRYING DAYS, 


233 


Mary’s eyes sparkled with pleasure over 
this new view of the subject. 

‘‘ I wonder I never thought of it before,” 
she exclaimed. It seems to me that then 
he would be better off than people who can 
see. He could read in the night if he 
wanted to, for he would read with his fin- 
gers.” 

‘‘ Yes, and he has another advantage which 
helps to prove that old saying true : ‘ There 
is no cloud but has its silvei lining but I 
think you would not care to change eyes 
with him, for all that.” 

‘‘I do not suppose I would if I tried it 
a while, for I like to read so many books 
that would not be printed in raised letters. 
But Willie will be so happy, I think, to 
read one book, after doing without so long.” 

‘‘ He will probably try your patience,” said 
her mother. “ You must not count too much 
on success.” 

“ I think I have learned that lesson pretty 
well,” said Mary. ‘‘ I shall never again get 
so discouraged as I did over Mr. Denton. 
I do so wish we could hear about him.” 

Do not be too sure, my daughter. What 


234 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


streDgtli you have is all given you, and that 
warm, impulsive heart of yours will yet need 
a great deal of training/’ 

‘‘ I know that,” she answered ; ‘‘ I want 
to do only what I can.” 

It was a winding path they followed to 
the river-side, not very distinctly marked, 
and sometimes branching off through the 
cedar clumps and underbrush till one might 
very easily become confused and miss his 
way. 

‘‘ I think we are in the wrong path, 
mother,” said Mary. Seems to me that 
old chestnut was on the right, and that some- 
where about here there is a dangerous shelf 
in the rock.” 

She had scarcely uttered the words when 
Mrs. Clemson, who had gone on a little be- 
fore, gave a start and a sudden cry. Her 
foot had slipped on a loose stone. In trying 
to recover herself, she caught hold of an 
overhanging bush, which broke in her hand, 
and she slipped over the ledge of rock. It 
was all the work of an instant. 

Mary caught her mother’s dress as she 
slipped, and would have gone over too if 


TRYING DAYS. 


235 


lier own clothing had not become entangled. 
She struggled to get it free, and in so doing 
the terrified child had a moment to think 
and avoid the leap it was her first impulse 
to take. Her mother lay just below her, 
only a few feet out of her reach, but so still 
that Mary knew she must be either stunned 
or dead. 

“ Mother ! mother !” she screamed. Speak 
to me !” letting herself down with trembling 
hands by the nearest way she could over the 
rocks. 

Her worst fears were not realized, how- 
ever, for on reaching the spot she found 
that her mother had recovered enough to 
open her eyes and speak, though she ap- 
peared to be helpless in every other respect. 

“Dear child,’’ she said, seeing the pale, 
affrighted face that bent over her, “ do not 
give up. I was stunned at first ; I may not 
be much hurt. You must go to the village 
for help, though, for I shall never be able 
to walk home.” 

“ Oh, if Charlie were here, or even Fido ! 
But to leave you alone !” 

Mrs. Clernson, with Mary’s help, tried to 


236 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


get up, but in vain. There was nothing for 
Mary to do but to carry out her mother’s 
instructions ; so, with a heavy heart, but with 
nimble footsteps, she hurried up to the road 
and made her way to the home of Stephen 
Grier, which was the nearest of three or four 
small white houses perched among the rocks 
just beyond Lookout Point. 

As Mary came in sight she saw Kaven 
harnessed and waiting at the door — a hap- 
py circumstance for her, since he was the , 
only horse the little settlement could afford. 

“ Ben must be up again,” she thought. 

But no; coming nearer, she saw it was 
Stephen Grier who was using Ben’s ancient 
establishment for Dr. Anson, who had been 
sent to visit the sick man and was just pass- 
ing out of the house to return. Mary’s story 
'was told in breathless haste; and, without 
stopping to satisfy many eager and deeply 
sympathizing questioners with explanations 
that could be given at another time, she was 
soon back again with her pastor at the scene 
of the accident, leaving others to follow as 
quickly as possible. 

After that ride home from Lookout Point 


TRYING DAYS. 


237 


behind old Raven, Mrs. Clemson was not 
again outside of her door for many months. 
For weeks she was as helpless as an infant, 
scarcely able at times to think for herself, 
much less for her poor children, and need- 
ing stronger and more experienced nurses 
than they could be, though they started 
with the idea that no one but themselves 
should do anything for mother. It was a 
hard struggle for Mary to give up her will 
in this matter and allow strangers to take 
her place in the dear invalid’s room, while 
she went about the house attending to duties 
which were necessary to be done, but which 
she did not understand much better than 
nursing, and had much less heart for. For 
two or three days she let the housekeeping 
go pretty much as it would and hovered 
around her mother, but the machinery her 
dear hands had kept in such constant order 
ran down at last, like a neglected clock, and 
Mary had to rouse up and see what she could 
do toward again setting it in motion. 

One stormy Saturday afternoon Dr. An- 
son came in and found her, as he had found 
her more than once before, with her head on 


238 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


her mother’s pillow, looking the very picture 
of desolation. Mrs. Clemson was in a heavy 
sleep, the nurse drowsily nodding in her chair. 
He looked in, as he had been bidden to do 
when he rang for entrance, and without 
waking either of the sleepers beckoned to 
Mary to come out into the hall. She did 
so, softly shutting the door behind her. 

My child,” said he, in his usual fatherly 
way, “I was looking over here from my 
study-windows — you know I can see the 
house now that the leaves have fallen — and 
I thought, since you will not be likely to 
get out to church to-morrow, I would step 
over beforehand and give you a little ser- 
mon all to yourself. You will find the text 
in the front bedchamber there,” pointing in 
that direction. “ Run along in ; and if you 
need my help. I’ll follow.” 

Such a scene as met her eyes as she opened 
the door ! 

“ Oh dear ! what will mother say ?” she 
groaned. 

The windows had been left open since 
the night before, and the new carpet was 
drenched with rain ; while the chairs, which 


TRYING DAYS, 


239 


had been freshly covered, and the bright 
crimson curtains her mother had just fin- 
ished and put up were streaked and drip- 
ping wet. Worse than all that, she saw that 
the water had found its way through the 
flooring, and that the parlor wall had suf- 
fered in consequence. 

Dr. Anson had followed her, as he pro- 
posed, but not to preach. Poor Mary was 
too heartbroken for anything but soothing 
words, and he went about assisting her to re- 
pair, as far as possible, the damage which 
had been done. 

“ Come, Mary !’’ he said, cheerily ; we 
have plenty of work here. Duty is plain- 
ly marked out. We shall have to call on 
Catherine for help, however.” 

But Catherine had her hands full in the 
kitchen. Life’s first duty, in her eyes, was 
to wash on Mondays and scrub on Saturdays ; 
so, when Mary came down to state the case, 
she was in the very midst of her labors. 

“ Hows’ever,” she said, wiping her hands 
on her apron, ‘‘since it’s Dr. Anson that 
wants me. I’ll go ; but mind you. Miss Mary, 
it won’t be for long, for here are all these 


240 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


things to set to rights before six to-night/’ 
waving her hand majestically over the isl- 
and of tinware and crockery from the kitchen 
closets which had been stranded in the mid- 
dle of the floor. ‘‘And nobody knows how 
much more I’ll have to do, with that snufiy 
old woman up stairs a-pilin’ her dishes onto 
my clean table without so much as renching 
out one. Bad luck to her ! The best china 
too !” 

Mary looked at the kitchen-table as she 
passed. The dinner-dishes stood unwashed 
in dire confusion, and under the table stood 
the clothes-basket with some of the week’s 
unfinished ironing; while a peculiar smell 
from the range told that the great tea-kettle 
had boiled dry, and so would not only fail 
when hot water was wanted in the sick-room, 
but was also in danger of losing its bottom 
altogether. She felt that never before had 
she known what trouble was. Life’s cares 
fell on her like an avalanche. And she 
had no mother to go to. 

Catherine gave them twenty minutes of 
vigorous work, relieving her overcharged 
mind all the time by a clear and explicit 


TRYING DAYS. 


241 


statement to Dr. Anson of the miseries of 
a maid-of- all- work “ with sickness in the 
house and nobody but crazy-headed chil- 
dren to do a hand’s turn, lettin’ alone hav- 
in’ strangers poking their noses into every- 
thing ; and snuffy at that !” 

All that could then be done was soon done. 
As they came down stairs Dr. Anson said, 

“ I think you have had a rousing sermon, 
Mary. There seems to be no need of an 
application.” 

“ I don’t know, I am sure,” said Mary, 
with tears starting afresh ; “ I can’t think 
what to do. If I could only ask mother !” 

‘‘ Poor child !” said the doctor, with a 
kindly pressure of his hand on the little 
bowed head before him; ‘^it is one of the 
rough places, isn’t it? But the Shepherd 
knows. It is on the way to some of his 
green pastures. Follow on though he some- 
times brings you out into a stony field of 
duty. It is a right way, you may be sure, 
if it does go through the wilderness and the 
solitary place. So cheer up, my dear ; it is 
only one step at a time, and the good Lord 
is with you all the way. Do not fret be- 
16 


242 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


cause you are not strong enough to lift 
mother and do what you would like to do 
for her. It is not for us to refuse the du- 
ties God sets before us, and I think you will 
find that he has called you to show forth his 
patience in the kitchen these days. So take 
up the cross, my child, and look to him for 
strength to bear it. Good-bye 

The doctor brought his pastoral visit, with 
all its varied duties, to a hasty close, for 
Catherine’s voice was sounding in the dis- 
tance like the far-off mutterings of a storm, 
and he had scarcely closed the door before 
Charlie rushed into the hall with a flushed 
and angry face to tell the story of his wrongs 
in the kitchen. 

“ I have been a good boy all day,” he said, 
“ have fed the chickens, brought up the coal, 
done all the errands, and never slammed a 
door one single time ; and it’s Saturday too ! 
And now, because Jamie Grant followed me 
in with muddy boots when he brought up 
Catherine’s kindling-wood, she drove Jamie 
out and bolted the door after him. It’s 
a shame! I won’t stand it, and I told 
her so.” 


TRYING DAYS. 


243 


Charlie would have expressed his views 
on the matter still more fully and loudly if 
Mary had not hushed him by reminding him 
that his mother might hear the noise he was 
making. 

‘‘ Come into the parlor/’ she said, ‘‘ and 
see what has happened.” 

The boy’s attention was entirely diverted 
by this new mischance, and, looking into 
his sister’s face, he saw how wretchedly 
she felt. 

‘‘/left those windows open, Mary.” Char- 
lie was always frank. “ Who would have 
thought of all this flood?” 

“You should have — ” 

Mary’s reproof died on her lips as she 
remembered how entirely she had been 
turning away from every duty but the one 
she coveted in her mother’s room. Then 
Charlie looked so sorry! “He is such a 
dear boy — so much better than I am,” she 
thought, “though he never professed to be 
a Christian.” So she only said, 

“ We shall have to do better than this, 
Charlie, or mother will think we did not 
try to take care.” 


244 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


‘‘That’s SO, Mary; but I have tried — 
Catherine said so herself; and, after all, 
see what a row she made about nothing.” 

“ It was something, and something I 
might have hindered. Catherine has ever 
so much to do, and she has been used to 
having a great deal of mother’s help and 
contrivance. I must go now and see what 
I can do for her ;” and, forgetting her own 
trouble in her desire to aid another, Mary 
left Charlie and went into the kitchen. 


CHAPTER Xyill. 


GOOD OUT OF EVIL. 

“ Life’s common round, its daily task, 

Will furnish all that we may ask : 

Room to deny ourselves, a road 
To bring us daily nearer God.” 

M ary had no time that winter to teach 
Willie Evans or to read to Ben Maclean, 
pleasant and profitable as such tasks would 
have been. Yet the prayer that she had 
so often put up to God for strength and op- 
portunity to serve him was day by day an- 
swered more fully than she could understand 
until years afterward, when she came to look 
back upon this early lesson. It was a very 
humble task which was set before her, but in 
it she learned more of the spirit of Him who 
‘‘pleased not himself’’ than she could have 
learned in any other way. She began to see 
the truth as she stood over the kitchen-table 
washing dishes after Dr. Anson left. His 

245 


246 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


word of counsel at parting was followed up 
by another to the same purpose, but from 
quite a different source; so she had ‘‘line 
upon line,” as we shall see. 

Catherine’s wrath was yet blazing over 
the muddy tracks on her clean floor, and 
she was disposed to vent her ill-humor on 
any one who came within sound of her 
voice. Pots and pans were going into clos- 
ets with an amazing din, but through all 
the hubbub she contrived to give Mary her 
views on the subject at considerable length 
and with a voice that could have taken in 
a much larger audience. It would have 
been much pleasanter to have one of her 
mother’s sweet lessons, but still the truth 
Mary needed to hear came in the time, 
place and manner to make it sink deep- 
ly into her heart and there take root. 

“ It’s all very well to mope and cry over 
sick folks,” said Catherine, with a vigorous 
push which sent the wash-boiler rattling to 
its place, “ but, to my th inkin’, them as puts 
their love into clean clothes and clean dishes 
to make ’em comfortable is the kind that 
proves it best. Whatever will your mother 


GOOD OUT OF EVIL. 


247 


say, poor dear! when she gits up — as the 
Lord grant she may ! — and finds the best 
bedroom, that she had just set to rights with 
her own hands, lookin’ worse’n if I’d been 
there of a Monday with my wash-tubs? 
which same I’d never do, as you very well 
know, unless I was crazed, which it is good 
for ye I’m not, thank fortin !” 

“ I am thankful too, Catherine,” said 
Mary, meekly, in a quiet interval when her 
voice could be heard. ‘‘ I am going to help 
you now and see if I can’t do better.” 

Catherine, mollified by this and a sight 
she caught now and then of the poor little 
tired face over the dishes, softened her tone 
considerably; but she went on to have out 
her say, as she was apt to do everywhere 
and under all circumstances : 

‘‘ It’s your own mother, miss, as has taught 
me more things’n kitchen-work since I came 
here, a greenhorn, last spring was a twelve- 
month ; and so I know — havin’ her to tell 
me, you see — what the blessed Lord him- 
self thinks about them as minds their duty 
without pickin’ and choosin’ for theirselves 
so much. It was only yesterday week she 


248 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


sat there by that table a-peelin’ peaches for 
tea and tellin’ of some holy man in old 
times who saw Jesus in a dream, as it were, 
all in his beautiful robes and a crown on his 
head. While he was lookin’ all as happy as 
could be, he was called away to do some poor 
work — like this, mayhap, you and me are at 
now. He went to his duty ; and when he 
came back, there stood the Lord yet, waitin’ 
for him with a smile, and says he, ‘ If you 
had not gone, I would not have stayed,’ 
meanin’ that we pleased him as much by 
such work anybody can do, and ought to 
do, as by anything oncommon.” 

Here the voice died away down the cellar- 
stairs, whither Catherine had betaken her- 
self in the performance of some of her nu- 
merous duties. But her timely words made 
that dish-washing a new era in Mary’s life. 
The truth was not new, but it had begun to 
spring up in the soil God had prepared for 
it. She found enough to do, when that duty 
was over, to keep her busy until after her 
usual hour for retiring. How different all 
the homely work seemed to her when she 
thought of it as something done for her 


GOOD OUT OF EVIL. 


249 


mother’s sake ! It was a new life for her, 
and almost a new love — a love that certain- 
ly felt and acted very differently from the 
old dreamy affection she once had. She had 
scarcely lifted her head from the pillow the 
next morning before it reminded her that if 
her dear mother had been well she would 
have been up an hour earlier, busy here and 
there in so many ways that would add to the 
family comfort. The sitting-room would 
have been dusted, books and papers put in 
order, the breakfast-table set, and, more than 
likely, some freshly-gathered flowers among 
its dainty china would have told of an early 
visit to the garden. To do all this, and to 
do it in mother’s stead, was Mary’s new am- 
bition. She set herself to every task with 
an energy that only love can give, and in so 
doing, with scarcely a thought of praise, she 
pleased that dearest Friend of all who often 
claims our best service in the same humble 
path of duty. 

Weeks after this beginning, when Mrs. 
Clemson was able to come feebly down the 
stairs to sit again with her little family 
around the winter fire — for December snow 


250 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


was whitening the earth before she could 
leave her room — she found much that showed 
the work of unskillful hands, but everywhere 
proofs that true love had done its best. Even 
Charlie, whose zeal had been of a fitful kind 
and needed many promptings, had come into 
harness, and ‘‘ never had to be told the sec- 
ond time, ma’am,^’ said Catherine, ‘‘about 
fetchin’ the kindlin’-wood, but brought it 
to me regular.’’ 

Mrs. Clemson was sitting alone one pleas- 
ant December afternoon, examining Mary’s 
awkward attempt at finishing some work 
for Charlie which had been left in the fam- 
ily work-basket at the time of the accident, 
when her pastor and his wife came in to 
pay her a little visit. 

“I hardly know whether to laugh or to 
cry over this,” said Mrs. Clemson, holding 
up the garment for inspection ; “so I have 
been doing both. It is some of Mary’s work, 
dear child ! She has given herself up to 
efforts to please and help me.” 

Mrs. Anson put on her spectacles to look 
into the matter. 

“These stitches are all right,” said the 


GOOD OUT OF EVIL. 


251 


good lady — “ we might expect that from 
your training — but who ever saw a shirt- 
sleeve put in after such a fashion as this? 
The child was thinking of a tight-bodied 
dress, wasn’t she? so she has brought the 
seam around to the front and left out the 
gusset.” 

‘‘Let me see,” said the doctor, bringing 
his white head into a closer neighborhood 
with the little garment in question. “Is 
that so very strange?” 

Both ladies were laughing heartily. 

“Of course it is. Dr. Anson. But one 
cannot expect a man to know it, unless it 
is by experience;- and then we should be 
quite apt to hear about it. What would 
you do if your shirt-sleeves were in such a 
twist as that? But it is too bad to laugh 
over such an honest attempt as this. Dear 
little Mary ! — Do not tell her, Mrs. Clem- 
son, that anybody has been criticising her 
work.” 

“ I am glad, for my part, that you showed 
it to us,” said the doctor. “ There is a whole 
sermon in it, as I often say, text and all. The 
work was not well done, and might better 


252 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


have been left undone ; but a mother’s bless- 
ing follows the love the blundering child has 
put in it. That is the way with us all. The 
Lord smiles on those who have done what 
they could, though often he has to do all 
his children’s work over after them to make 
it worth anything.” 

As was said before, Mary found no time 
to carry out her plans for the winter’s leis- 
ure. As soon as possible after her mother 
had left her sick-room she commenced her 
round of school-duties again, and, being very 
ambitious to keep up with her class, she found 
herself much crowded for time. Catherine 
was ready to take her full share of the family 
burdens, and was now as anxious to relieve 
Mary as before she had been to find fault 
with her ; but for months after her fall Mrs. 
Clemson was so crippled that she had still to 
give up every old duty but the issuing of 
orders as she sat in her easy-chair by the 
fire. So, when Mary came home at night, 
there was a piece of sewing to take up or a 
room to be put in order, instead of the book 
or the visit she once had for amusement. 
Lessons came to fill up the time after sup- 


GOOD OUT OF EVIL. 


253 


per, and, as for Saturday, it was the busiest 
day of all. 

She was talking over her plans one day 
with her mother, just after the surgeon had 
told them that months must pass before Mrs. 
Clemson could use her hand for sewing, if 
ever she used it at all. 

‘‘ I have been thinking, mother, of what 
you told me the other day — that nothing 
happens to God’s people. He brings good 
out of everything for them.” 

“ Yes, my child ; he had a purpose to ac- 
complish in allowing me to stumble as I did. 
I have been studying it over a great deal, and 
now I see many blessings flowing from it to 
us all. And there are more to come. You, 
for instance, are getting a beautiful training 
in the school of Christ. He ‘ pleased not 
himself.’ What joy will flow into your soul 
as more and more you go on giving up your 
will to his !” 

‘^But I have not given up my plans, 
mother,” said Mary, going on with the 
dusting she had in hand. ‘Ht seems to 
me I am only waiting for a chance to carry 
them all out.” 


254 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


^ What if it never comes ?” 

o 

I hope I shall always be willing to let 
Jesus have his own way about that — he 
knows best about everything; but I shall 
be so thankful if he lets me use my eyes 
and hands and feet and keeps me strong 
and well, so that I can do good for a long 
lifetime, like Grandma Porter/’ 

‘‘So shall I, my dear; but I have this 
trust in God — that if he takes away any 
blessing from his dear ones, it is only that 
he may give them more and better in an- 
other way.” 

“ I have been thinking,” said Mary, “ how 
pleasant it would be if you could read to me 
afternoons while I am sewing.” 

“ With all my heart, dear child ! My 
eyes are as good as ever they were, and I 
should have offered to do so before had I 
not remembered that you are not fond of 
hearing others read.” 

“ I am not so selfish now about that,” re- 
plied Mary ; “ and I think I shall enjoy my 
books all the more when I can share the 
pleasure with you — that is, if it is a pleas- 
ure.” 


GOOD OUT OF EVIL. 


255 


“ You little know/’ exclaimed Mrs. Clein- 
son, how deeply I am interested in all that 
takes the attention of my children or goes 
to form their minds or their hearts.” 

So that was settled, and with it another 
pleasure which Mary had expected to have 
all to herself, but which, in the self-forget- 
fulness she was now learning, she cheerfully 
gave up to her dear mother. 

Ben Maclean, old and feeble as he was, 
had sufficiently recovered to totter to Mrs. 
Clemson’s house on pleasant mornings to 
gain that refreshment for soul and body 
which his poor home had never afforded 
him. He had been down on one of these 
visits the day before, and Catherine had 
taken him vigorously in hand, as she did 
all family matters nowadays. 

“ He’s got to cornin’ reg’lar, ma’am,” she 
said to Mrs. Clemson as she aided him into 
the sitting-room ; and now, sech bein’ the 
case, I says to him, says I, ‘ Ben, the coflPee-pot 
is emptied long ago, and the bread set away 
’cordin to orders,’ for I neglects nothing or 
nobody ’cepting when I am called two or 
three ways to onct, and that I can’t help, as 


256 


FIRST THE BLADE, 


you very well know, havin’ but one pair of 
hands or feet and nobody at the fore but 
myself. — But, as I was sayin’, ‘ Ben,’ says I, 

‘ come in, for I’ve saved the coffee ’ — meanin’ 
to please you, ma’am — ‘ and I’ll get the bread 
and welcome, so as you don’t crumb it around, 
and then the missus will have a good word 
for you in the sitting-room.’ So here he is,” 
handing Ben a chair with special reference 
to the place his old boots would find on the 
oil-cloth. 

It was an opportunity not to be lost, and 
the accounts Mrs. Clemson could give of ' 
such visits led Mary to suggest that her 
mother should take up for him the work 
in which she had promised herself so much 
pleasure. 

I only wish I could be at home to hear 
him talk,” said Mary : ‘‘ he makes such queer 
speeches sometimes; but you had best read 
to him whenever he can come. And would 
you not be able to teach poor Willie Evans 
too?” 

“Are you willing to hand over all your 
enterprises to me?” asked her mother, re- 
membering how eagerly her daughter had 


GOOD OUT OF EVIL. 


257 


hoped by such efforts to win a little glory 
for herself as well as for her Saviour. 

“I think I am. Well change work: I 
will do yours and you will do mine. Only/’ 
— and she laughed as she said it — we are 
so mixed up about these things ! I can’t do 
anything for you without helping myself 
too.” 

"We cannot live or die to ourselves in 
this world: we must either help or hinder 
one another/’ said Mrs. Clemson. 

17 


CHAPTER XIX. 


FRUIT AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ Content to fill a little space, 
So Thou be glorified.” 


NOTHER Christian, older than Mary 



in years, but quite as young in expe- 
rience, was blessed with her that winter in 
a discipline which drives the soul from 
earthly props to Christ the Stronghold. 

Poor Ben Maclean would have been glad 
to have leaned in his time of trial on Mrs. 
Clemson’s clear understanding and tender 
sympathy. She could always disentangle 
his mazy thoughts, for he lived in a sort 
of mental cobweb; and when his weak 
brain, spurred on by fever, was doing so 
much more thinking than usual, he longed 
for her presence, and could not at first be 
satisfied that God had put so great a hin- 
drance in the way of her coming. But he 
had set aside this human helper that the 


258 


FRUIT AFTER MANY DAYS. 


259 


poor bewildered, tempest-tossed pilgrim might 
look more to him for comfort and guidance. 

“Oh, eyes that are weary 
And hearts that are sore, 

Look off unto Jesus, 

And sorrow no more. 

The light of his countenance 
Shineth so bright 
That here, as in heaven. 

There need be no night.” 

It was with a new song in his mouth that 
Ben arose from that bed of suffering. He 
had learned to take Jesus at his word, and the 
joy of sin forgiven was flowing like a peace- 
ful river through his heart, leading him on to 
that sweet obedience to God’s will which can 
be given only by a childlike love and faith. 

“ ’Twas like as though I’d never knowed 
the Lord afore,” said Ben as he took a seat 
by Mrs. Clemson’s pleasant flreside one morn- 
ing. ‘‘But what fetched me was I hain’t 
been givin’ him credit for — ” Here the 
poor old man broke down at the mention 

“Of that love beyond a brother’s.” 

“ Yes, Ben, you are richer than you know, 
for what a treasure you have found in Jesus, 


260 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


and how long he has waited for you to put 
out your hand and take it!” 

‘‘ Yes’m. If it weren’t for his patience ! I 
says to Clarie this mornin’, ‘ Clarie/ says I, 
‘his love is so oncommon. It’s well he’s 
fetched his own light along to show it oflP 
or — ’ ” 

“We couldn’t see it,” added Mrs. Clem- 
son, who knew just how to finish up Ben’s 
sentences for him. “ God sent his Spirit to 
take the things of Christ and show them to 
us.” 

“ Yes’m. Heavenly Father’s a great pro- 
vider; nothin’s wantin’ in his plans, so as 
we come into ’m.” 

A smile overspread the rugged features of 
the old man as he spoke. Truth beyond the 
power of the feeble, stammering tongue to 
express was shining in upon his soul and 
opening out before it the glories of a fin- 
ished redemption. 

“How did you come into your heavenly 
Father’s plans, Ben ?” asked Mrs. Clemson, 
willing to hear in his own simple language 
the story Dr. Anson had already told her. 

“ I was so tired 1” said Ben, with a sigh 


FRUIT AFTER MANY BAYS. 261 

over the very memory of those weary times 
of mental suffering. ‘‘I was thinkin’ and 
thinkin’ to make all straight ’twixt me and 
him,” pointing upward, ‘‘and ’twas all ex- 
plained to me time and time agin by them 
as know’d, but next mornin’ there was noth- 
in’ to show for it, and I was beat out tryin’. 
One day says I to Clarie, ‘ If I could only 
hold on !’ She says, ‘ Ben, if you was to 
drop, you couldn’t fall out o’ the Lord’s 
hand.’ Says I, ‘No more I couldn’t.’ I 
kind o’ fell asleep with that. ’Twas rest- 
in’ to me ; ’twas like bein’ put in the cradle 
agin, with mother to watch.” 

“ You will not again try take care of your- 
self, will you, Ben ?” 

“ I don’t count on nothin’ but his lovin’ 
and holdin’ on, ’cause what am I?” 

So this poor halting one crept into the 
shadow of his Lord, and two years later — for 
we must leave Ben here — when he passed 
down into the dark valley, it could be said 
of him, in highest praise for earth or heav- 
en, he “ kept the faith.” 

The winter passed pleasantly away, and 


262 


FIRST THE BLADE, 


spring came with its soft breezes and the 
happy songs of birds. The maple-leaves 
were budding out, and the crocus-blossoms 
laughed in the sunshine along the garden 
paths. The children began to long for their 
rambles in the woods, and to talk of days 
when mother would be well and strong and 
could spend a long bright day with them 
in the open air. 

Spring brought its duties too, though they 
had never lain very heavily on any one at 
Mrs. Clemson’s home, so long as its willing 
mistress could herself attend to them. 

‘‘ Who is to look after the garden now 
asked Charlie, one warm April morning. 
“ Mary is as busy as ever she can be ; and 
she does not know much about gardening, 
even if she had plenty of time.” 

‘‘ I think we can manage it, my little care- 
taker,” replied Mrs. Clemson, ‘‘ without put- 
ting too much on your young shoulders. I 
shall get help to break up the ground and 
put it in order, and I shall look to you to 
keep the weeds under.” 

Mary came in just then, tired and hot 
after her long walk from school. 


FRUIT AFTER MANY DAYS. 


263 


“ Oh dear she exclaimed, flinging her 
books on the table ; ‘‘ I'd like to rest for a 
week if I could !" 

“ Poor child ! I wish you might have a 
holiday. This spring weather makes us all 
long for a change.” 

Mary looked at the dear face leaning back 
in the easy-chair. She had not noticed be- 
fore how worn her mother looked or how 
fast the smooth brown hair was becoming 
silvered. 

<< Why, mother,” she said, quickly, “lam 
strong enough ; I was only wishing for some- 
thing fresh and cheery. I have been as 
tired as this many a time after a walk to 
Cardinal Spring.” 

“ Perhaps this will do you good.” Char- 
lie was turning out his pockets in a labo- 
rious effort to And something. Twine, slate- 
pencils, knives, nails and all the rest of the 
rubbish had to come out before he found 
what he was after. “ It's a letter for you, 
Mary. The queerest-looking thing, too ! Oh, 
here it is!” handing over a brown enve- 
lope which had the address written across 
the top: 


264 


FIRST THE BLADE. 



Within, it read : 

Torquay, England, March 29. 

MI DEAR YUNG FREND I i hav not forgot mi prom- 
mis to rite you about Mr denton Hee dyed yester- 
da nune in this plaice the Lord wus verry merciful 
to Him an answered Our prayers att last, fur He dyed 
hopin in Jesus and confessin thee same fur which let 
Us Praze our Faithfiill God Hee made this last re- 
quest yesterda mornin in these wurds giv a token fiir 
mee to mary Clemson When axed wot Hee sayed A 
bible witch will be don by His afflycted muther. Pra 
fiir hur 

i giv mi dooty to your muther never forgetin you to 
so no more at Present and hopin you Can egscuse mis- 
takes of your true frend 

Thomas Bryan. 

“ Oh, mother, this is wonderful !” said 
Mary. “ I had given it all up.’’ 

She could say no more, but ran out of the 
room to that corner of her little bedchamber 
whither she had carried many a sorrow and 
many a happiness, but never a joy so deep, 
so solemn, so far-reaching, as this. 

It is a good place to leave the young Chris- 
tian for a while, so lovingly reproved for her 


FRUIT AFTER MANY DAYS. 265 

want of faith as well as cheered and encour- 
aged to make a new beginning in the ser- 
vice of Christ, 

“Dropping her burden at his feet 
To bear a song away.” 

Weeks after Bryan’s letter came, a packet 
arrived for Mary. It was a beautiful little 
Bible bound in velvet and gold, marked on 
the fly-leaf with this text — the last words 
of her friend Harry Denton : 

“Thanks be unto God for his unspeak- 
able gift.” 

June roses were in bloom, and Mrs. Clem- 
son had so revived in the fresh air and sun- 
shine that from a full heart she was thanking 
God for a prospect of entire recovery. 

Catherine, who, with all her numerous du- 
ties as housekeeper and nurse, found time to 
contrive many pleasant changes of scene as 
well as of diet for her beloved mistress, had 
one day dragged her easy-chair out under 
the orchard trees and set it where she could 
see a long stretch in the Mapleton road, up 
which the children would come from school. 


266 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“ ’Twill hearten you up a bit, mum,” said 
she, tucking the wrappings about the invalid 
with her strong hands as though she had a 
baby in charge ; “ and if you can’t put your 
feet to the turf, you can feel the smell of it 
coming up as sweet as roses, and the good 
Lord himself smiling out of the sunshine 
all around.” 

Some odor from the kitchen seemed then 
to reach Catherine, for she rushed off in its 
direction, for a few moments leaving Mrs. 
Clemson to her own happy thoughts. It 
was not long before the maid’s honest face 
appeared at the window, and she called out 
cheerily : 

‘‘ Never fear, mum ! I thought the bread 
might be burnin’, but it’s done to a turn ; 
and the cakes come out splendid. Here are 
the children cornin’ from school up the road, 
and you lookin’ like such a blessed picture 
under them trees.” 

Catherine’s warm heart was as full of sun- 
shine as was the garden of flowers. In a 
moment she had routed Fido from the 
door-mat, where he lay napping, and sent 
him flying up the road to meet Charlie. 


FRUIT AFTER MANY DAYS, 


267 


‘‘ In case of letters, mum,” she said, with 
an explanatory nod to Mrs. Clemson. ‘‘ That 
dog is set up for a week if he can bring 
home the mail.” 

Fido was soon back with a great mouthful 
of letters ; he laid them down at Mrs. Clem- 
son’s feet as though he had a rabbit to wrig- 
gle about and bark over in the fullness of 
his doggish pride. Catherine, whose eye was 
upon everything that went on, made a sally 
out of the kitchen at this, and carried him 
off under her arm, so that the letters might 
be opened in peace. 

There were more of them than Mrs. Clem- 
son usually received at once. Two or three 
could wait a while ; so she laid them aside 
and took up one with a foreign postmark. 

“This is from dear Aunt Julia,” she said 
to the children. 

“ This is marked like it,” said Mary, hand- 
ing her mother an envelope in still heavier 
mourning than the first. 

“ Yes, this too is from England, but it is 
directed in a strange hand. Ah ! it is from 
Torquay. Poor Mrs. Denton ! I hardly 
know which to read first; so 1^11 open both.” 


268 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“ Do, mother, please ! There may be 
something in Aunt Julia’s for us.” 

Shall we read a few lines in Mrs. Denton’s 
letter as it lies open before us in the sun- 
shine ? We need but a few words to tell its 
story, and Mrs. Clemson’s eyes may be too 
dim with tears to read much farther than we 
do: 

God was very merciful to me, dear friend, when he 
brought us together in my deep sorrow. The Saviour 
of whom you then loved to tell me has opened my 
blinded eyes to see my sin and that fountain of his 
blood where I may wash and be cleansed. I see, too, 
that my treasures were taken that I might be led to 
seek the heavenly portion I so much needed. 

But there was another letter, which the 
children carried off to read together ; and if 
we listen, we shall hear again of little Kittie 
Brainard. She has news to tell, and some 
words that will linger in Mary’s heart long 
after many another record of her childhood 
is forgotten : 

Winston Park, June 3. 

Dear Mary : I keep wishing all the time you were 
here. England is a good country ; only it is so far off. 
George has a pair of white goats, and drives me about 


FRUIT AFTER MANY DAYS. 


269 


in a little wagon. It is nice, when they don’t upset us, 
for they did yesterday when they backed around. 

Oh, Mary, you will be so glad ! Grandma Fortes- 
que has a gentleman visiting here who knows all about 
Mr. Denton. He went to heaven, after all, and said 
to everybody how he loved Jesus and wanted them to 
love him too. So, when he saw that little brown boy 
among the shining ones, I believe he didn’t think how 
he used to look, but was glad to have him in “ happy 
land ” with all the rest. Mr. Denton said there was a 
little girl over in America who kept praying for him 
and he could not forget it. I wonder who it was? 

My letter grows so full before I get done ! Why 
don’t you write long letters too, and tell me about 
Emily Grant and Dr. Anson and Fido and how every- 
body is ? Does Willie Evans read yet ? I am learn- 
ing to sew, but I like ripping best — except when the 
stitches have to be put back again. Do you talk 
French yet ? I do, ever since last April, and grand- 
ma explains it to me. So no more at present, with 
bushels of love to all my friends. 

Your dear cousin, 

Kittie. 

P. S. I forgot Charlie, but I will write to him 
next time. 


And here we leave Mary. Life is but 
beginning with her. Its steps homeward are 
hidden from our view, as from hers, 


270 


FIRST THE BLADE. 


“ For God by ways they have not known 
Will lead his own.” 

But of this we are assured : He who be- 
gun the good work in her heart is able to 
carry it on; and, watered by his heavenly 
dews and nurtured in his sunshine, that 
which was at first but a ‘‘blade” shall at 
last become “ the full corn in the ear ” and 
add to his abundant harvest. 

Nor will Charlie be unblessed, for whom 
a mother’s prayers constantly ascend before 
the throne of God in the name of Him 
who said, “Ask, and ye shall receive.” 


THE END. 






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